


Halls of Power

by rainey13



Category: White Collar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-06-10
Packaged: 2018-02-04 03:16:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 59,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1763897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainey13/pseuds/rainey13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tag to Season 5: What happened to Neal, and will the rest of the team be able to find him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Taken

Neal leaned against the railing, looking out over the river. The water flowed past, seeming to mock him, as he considered his fate. A day earlier, New York had seemed like the best of all possible worlds – because from there, he could reach the rest of the world. And with the prospect of no anklet, no remaining sentence hanging over his head, he would once again be free to explore that world, yet always come home.

Now, with that gold ring pulled, once again, out of his grasp, he could only stare at the river. The water was running by him, leaving New York, not coming back.

He turned his attention back to the here and now… and there they were.

The boots.

Definitely not standard footwear for the normal denizens of The City That Never Sleeps. And he'd seen them one too many times over the last couple of days.

A little voice in the back of his head was whispering, in a quite decent impression of Peter's tone, that he shouldn't do anything rash. But he was tired of being played, used. And so he approached the stranger on the bench.

"Hey, why are you following me? Who are you?"

The man slowly dropped his newspaper and looked up, revealing blue eyes nearly the shade of Neal's own. But even now, up close, Neal couldn't place the face. And nothing could have prepared him for the words the man said.

"I'm about to become the last person on earth who knows where you are."

Before Neal could even process that answer, he felt other bodies behind him, next to him, a hood slipping over his head. He tried to pull away, to struggle, but they were strong and fast, confident in their actions. He opened his mouth, intending to make a scene – they were in a public park after all – but in that moment he felt a prick on the right side of his neck. He had just enough left in him to realize he'd been drugged, and not enough left to remember why he had opened his mouth.

He tried to focus on his feet, which still seemed to be moving, though he wasn't conscious of telling them to do so. And other feet next to his, moving with him; his vision was blurring, and he wasn't exactly sure how many feet there were.

They stopped abruptly, and then Neal felt himself being pushed forward. With the last of his mental acuity fading fast, he had enough time to wonder if he was being propelled into the river. But he landed quickly on something hard, and he heard a noise like a door slamming.

He opened his mouth again, but no sound came out. He tried to raise his head, but a wave of nausea hit him like a ton of bricks.

His head fell back, and unconsciousness claimed him.

 

* * *

 

There was a spring in his step as Mozzie headed off across the park. Near-death experiences were good for making one realize what he had – and the most recent brush with the grim reaper had left him with a true appreciation for his life. Granted, he still missed the fortune that he – Teddy Winters – had lost a few months earlier. But with the stake money Neal had provided, courtesy of the crooked shrink, he'd made a good start on rebuilding the empire.

The fact that Neal now seemed to be ready to re-commit to The Life made things just that much sweeter. In truth, he'd been a bit alarmed the other night when Neal was making proclamations about going straight. And part of him did actually sympathize with his friend, having his dreams of freedom snatched away by The Man – again.

But he'd find a way to get Neal some freedom, on _their_ terms, and everything would be all right.

Of course, the work on hacking the anklet would go even better if Neal had just the _right_ wine on hand…

Mozzie turned back, intending to offer some advice on the vino, but Neal was no longer where he had been. In fact, he was no longer on the path by the river.

Mozzie was just about to call out – because really, Neal hadn't been dressed for running, so he couldn't have gotten too far – when something caught his attention in the other direction.

And that something made his blood run cold.

That was definitely Neal, a hood over his head, goons on either side, being dragged toward the western end of the park. A third man trailed behind them, scanning the area as if watching for trouble.

Mozzie didn't consider himself to be either coward or hero, generally content to live life somewhere in between. And he certainly wasn't foolish enough to think he could take on three thugs, who might very well be armed, in physical combat.

But what he _could_ do was be a witness, and hopefully gather enough information so that he could find Neal later.

There was a slight grade leading away from the river, and he worked his way up the hill, on a parallel track to the men ahead of him. Even from a distance it seemed that Neal's struggles were weakening – _probably injured or drugged._

His jacket snagged on some brush, and rather than take the time to get it loose he shrugged out of it and continued on.

Mozzie reached the top of the hill just in time to see Neal, lying crumpled in the back of a van, with one of the unidentified men next to him. The doors closed and the other two men walked toward the front of the vehicle.

He worked his way carefully to the edge of the trees. It wasn't the best vantage point, but he could see part of the license plate as the van started up and pulled away.

Mozzie was debating his first call – his own street army, or the Suit – as he reached for his phone…

His hand came up empty.

_Damn!_ The only one he'd even consider using for a call to a FBI number was in his jacket, halfway down the hill.

He looked back at the where the van had been; it was already pulling off of the curb and turning out onto the street. Then he looked back down the hill, where he could just make out his jacket.

_Well, there was no way he'd catch that van on foot…_

He stood up and made his way down the hill as fast as he could go. And he was already dialing a non-Suit number on his primary phone as he went.

 

* * *

 

Peter stared at the open box in front of him, not really seeing the contents. When the picture frame fell out of his hand, landing on his foot, he finally came back to the here and now with a start. Mumbling a soft curse at the pain, he bent down and picked the offending item up.

It was a photo taken in the White Collar office. The whole unit was gathered, with his core team front and center. Jones, Diana…

Neal.

He remembered the day it was taken, in celebration of closing a big case. Hughes had even read a letter of commendation from DC in recognition of a job well done, and then the senior agent played photographer, directing everyone into place.

It was a testament to the best damn FBI team he'd ever been a part of. Quite possibly the best he'd _ever_ see in his career.

And now it just seemed like Fate was conspiring to tear that team apart.

Peter couldn't have even answered the question of how long he had been standing there, lost in thought. A day ago – hell, just a few hours ago – everything had seemed so clear. He was confident in his decision to move to DC, start fresh with a new job, new responsibilities, new location. He'd miss what would be left behind in New York, of course. But after everything that the last few months had brought – the fear, the anger, the chaos, the questions, the losses, the triumphs – a fresh start had seemed just the ticket. And wrapping the case on Rachel Turner – mercenary, thief, assassin – was just the way to close out his career in New York.

Well, closing out Neal's sentence would have been the icing on that ending. But that plan had certainly been scuttled.

And now…

Now, he was turning his back on a promotion and a move he'd been excited about just the day before. If he groveled enough, maybe he could step back into the open ASAC position he'd just vacated. Or his old position, in charge of the Manhattan White Collar division.

Of course, if he pissed off enough people by backing out of DC at the last moment, he might find himself assigned to the evidence warehouse again.

Thinking about the possibilities reminded him that he still needed to call Bruce Hall, make his choice to stay in New York official.

But even that seemed secondary to what he was doing now. Instead of just packing boxes, he was now going through the cartons, dividing out what would be going to DC with El, and what he would keep in New York.

_He had never anticipated her response – that she understood his need to stay, but she'd be going…_

He hoped he had hidden his surprise well, even though her announcement had hit him like the proverbial ton of bricks. And after the initial shock, he really did understand – the National Gallery job truly was a once in a lifetime opportunity.

He wouldn't – couldn't – stand in her way.

Just the thought of her leaving, though, was enough to make his knees feel weak, and he dropped down onto the edge of the bed. Intellectually, of course, he knew that plenty of couples overcame distances far greater than the roughly two hundred and fifty miles or so between New York and the nation's capital. The last time he'd had cause to travel to DC, there had been more than two dozen train departures from Penn Station to choose from each day, with the same variety of times to return to Manhattan.

It just wasn't the same as knowing that El would be there, in the same house, almost every night. And Skype most certainly wasn't a long term substitute.

Hell, they didn't even really have the house any longer – not after the end of the month. They'd arranged to rent it out, and a contract had been signed. He had less than two weeks to figure out where he'd lay his head at night.

While El was decorating a house in Georgetown, he might be bunking with the unfriendly dog at the Empire Hotel – or "Motel with an M" as Neal put it.

Peter sighed and set the photo aside – it would definitely stay with him in New York. But right now, he should probably suck it up and make the call to Bruce.

Thinking about where he might be living was getting ahead of himself. He should probably make sure he still had a job first…

 

* * *

 

Lost in concentration over finalizing the details on the report for the Worth case, the ringing phone almost didn't register. He finally picked it up, answering almost absently. "Jones."

The words spoken on the other end brought him quickly to attention.

"When?" He grabbed a pen, scribbling down the details related to him. "Where was this? Anything unusual before that? Right, we'll take the lead and coordinate with you if needed."

He hung up the phone, shaking his head. "Damn," he said softly.

But not softly enough, because Diana was just walking by, and she stopped. "Problem?"

"Caffrey's anklet was just cut," Jones replied, already opening a new screen with the tracking application on it.

"Damn." Diana echoed his reaction as she leaned in to study the map. "That doesn't make sense. Why would he do that now?"

"I don't know. I mean, there was something going on between him and Peter while you were out."

"Like what?"

Jones shook his head. "Peter wouldn't say."

"And Neal?"

"I never asked him," Jones admitted. "But it seemed like they had worked out whatever it was."

"Any other information on what happened today?"

"The Marshals just had the when and where." Jones looked around, making sure no one else was listening in. "Maybe we could go take a look, before making this official."

"It has been kind of a rough time for Caffrey," Diana agreed. "I'm with you." She straightened up, started toward her desk, and then turned back. "Are you going to call Peter?"

Jones hesitated. "Technically, he's not Caffrey's handler anymore."

"But you know he'd want to hear about this."

"Yeah," Jones said, though it came out more as a sigh. He reached for the phone…

 

* * *

 

Peter disconnected the call and leaned heavily against the kitchen bar, staring at his phone. The conversation with Bruce Hall had been… uncomfortable.

Actually, it had been downright painful.

He absently rubbed at his ear, almost convinced that he felt physical discomfort there from the heated words that had been lobbed in his direction. And maybe there was actually some physical pain – as the conversation had become more and more heated, he had tensed, and held the phone tighter to his ear.

Peter had the distinct feeling that Bruce's tirade probably could have been heard around the neighborhood if he _hadn't_ held the phone so close.

To say that Bruce was upset that Peter was turning down the job wouldn't even come close to describing the other man's mood. And Peter had had no choice but to listen as the senior agent ran through all of the favors he had called in to get one Special Agent Peter Burke invited to the big show in Washington, DC.

_And had Peter forgotten that it was only a few months earlier that he was sitting in a prison cell, looking at not only the end of his FBI career, but also quite possibly an extended stay in lockup…_

"As if I _could_ forget," Peter muttered, finally making himself move. He made it as far as the refrigerator, where he extracted a bottle of beer, twisted the cap off, and guzzled most of it before even closing the door. It probably wasn't going to help him calm down after the call, or make the sorting and packing any easier, but it sure tasted good. And it did, at least momentarily, soothe him a bit.

And there was some good news as a result of the call. After Bruce ranted for a while, he had finally admitted that the Bureau didn't have any strong candidates in line to take over as New York ASAC. After the fiasco of putting Amanda Callaway into that position, they were treading carefully. So Peter could keep his office, for now – but he was newly christened as the _interim_ ASAC, and warned that he'd have to go through the selection and interview process to try and keep the job.

That was the least of his worries right at the moment.

Peter drained the rest of the beer, dropped the empty bottle in the recycling bin, and decided against a second. He'd made a promise to El to help with all of the re-packing. Plus, once the moving van was loaded the next morning, she'd be on her way to meet the movers at the new house. He wanted to spend as much time as possible with her before they became one of those couples separated by physical distance.

He was just heading for the stairs when his phone rang. His first impulse was to just turn it off – but then he saw the identity of the caller.

"Hi, Jones."

' _Hey, Peter… uh, how's the packing?'_

Something about the hesitation in the younger agent's question made Peter come alert, and decide this wasn't the time to announce his new career plans. "What's wrong, Jones?"

There was a sigh on the other end of the line. _'Caffrey's anklet was cut.'_

"What!"

' _We just got the alert from the Marshals. Look, I know you're officially done here, but I figured you'd want to know.'_

"You're right, I do. Where was he?"

' _Tracking data shows he was by York and 60_ _th_ _, a park down by the river. Then he must have been in a cab or something, judging by the speed. The signal dropped a few blocks later.'_

Peter was regretting guzzling that beer now that he was trying to process the information Jones was relaying. "You tried calling him?"

' _Straight to voicemail. And it looks like his phone is turned off. Diana's not getting a GPS signal.'_

"Damn."

' _Look, Peter, I know things had been a little tense between the two of you, but it seemed like you had worked things out. Is there a reason he'd run?'_

Peter found he wasn't even really sure how to answer that. _Well, you see, he just got a promise of freedom yanked away, and he wasn't very happy…_ "I'll meet you at the park," he said, evading the question. "Let's see what we can find."

' _We're on our way.'_

Peter disconnected the call and started up the stairs, his mind already awhirl with putting together a plan to find the wayward consultant. Maybe if they could locate Neal quickly enough, settle him down, there would be a way to cover this little escapade without having it formally become an escape. But hadn't he warned the younger man not to do anything rash…

"Damn it, Neal!"

 

* * *

 

"Suit, this is the third message. Where are you? Neal needs help!"

Mozzie stabbed angrily at the button to disconnect the call, and then pulled out the _other_ cell phone – one that would never make a call to any law enforcement number. Or any other official government or industrial military complex number.

But it was perfect for who he was about to call now.

"Kato? Listen carefully. We need more help finding Neal…"


	2. Underway

Peter pulled up next to a curb, right in front of a fire hydrant. Leaving his FBI placard on the dash to cover that, he got out of the car and looked around.

At first glance, there was nothing out of the ordinary. It was a sunny summer day, the water in the nearby East River shimmering, birds chirping in the trees. The nearby Queensboro Bridge sparkled in golden splendor. He could hear the sounds of children laughing on the playground at the other side of the park.

All in all, an inauspicious place for a disappearance.

He was just going to pull up the tracking app on his phone and look at the detailed data on Neal's movements when he saw Jones and Diana coming toward him. Diana was pointing at a spot near the river, and then toward a path heading through the trees, so it looked like they were on top of the task already.

"Peter," Jones greeted as they met. He handed over a tablet with the tracking data overlaid on a graph of the park.

Diana took her bearings from the available landmarks and pointed toward a spot just south of where they were standing. "From the tracking history, it looks like Neal was walking along the river for a few blocks until he got right about there."

Jones took up the narrative. "He veered away from the river, toward that bench we just passed, then through the trees to the edge of the park."

Peter was studying the area, looking for anything out of place. "It all seems very ordinary," he said. "I don't remember Neal ever mentioning this place."

"Not exactly a hotbed of activity if someone wanted to get lost in a crowd," Diana pointed out.

"Peter," Jones started carefully. "Is there any reason that Neal would cut and run right now?"

Peter sighed. "I thought I had a plan in place that would drop the rest of his sentence," he explained. "But I had to tell Neal earlier today that it fell through."

"They weren't planning to send him back to prison, were they?" Diana asked.

Peter shook his head. "Quite the contrary. The Bureau considers him too much of an asset to lose."

"But if he was counting on the release…" Jones paused. "You really think he'd just take off like that? Doesn't seem like Neal, if there was no real threat."

"I don't know," Peter replied. "He definitely wasn't happy when he left my place, and he doesn't always make the best decisions when he gets bad news. But this is reckless even by Caffrey standards. The worst that was going to happen immediately was that he needed to show up to work tomorrow, and I told him I wasn't done trying to get the deal for him."

Diana pointed downriver. "There are cameras by the bridge. We can see if they picked him up."

"And he definitely seemed to be moving in a vehicle when he left the park, judging by the speed," Jones added. "There might be some traffic cams along the way before the anklet was cut."

Peter was nodding in agreement with the plan. "What about the Marshals? Are they actively looking?"

Jones shook his head. "I told them we'd look into things on our end, call them in if necessary."

"Good, that's good," Peter said. "If we can find him fast enough, maybe I can still smooth things over. I don't…"

"Well, that's gratitude for you."

The three agents turned at the sound of a new, familiar voice.

"Neal didn't run," Mozzie said firmly, shooting a glare Peter's way. "I tried to tell you, if you had bothered answering your phone."

Peter glanced down at his phone, which did, indeed, show some missed calls. "I was in a little too much of a hurry to answer blocked numbers on my personal phone."

Mozzie's glare intensified. "Neal didn't run," he repeated. "He was grabbed, right here."

"You saw it?" Jones asked.

"Three men," Mozzie replied. "They threw a hood over his head and dragged him toward York."

"Did you see a vehicle?" Diana asked.

"Dark grey Ford panel van. New York license plate. I only saw the first part of the plate – 1907."

"Well, that's something we can run with," Jones said, reaching for his phone. "I'll see if the traffic cameras…"

"The van went south on York, then west on 57th," Mozzie supplied. "Last sighting was entering the Holland Tunnel. I haven't heard anything since." When the agents just stared at him, Mozzie shrugged. "When the Suit didn't answer his phone, I made some other calls."

"We can run the partial plate through the system," Diana said, pulling up a number on her phone. "Then get an alert out in New Jersey."

Peter was listening to the exchange, approving the actions, and yet… "Mozzie," he started, a little bit of hesitation in his voice. "I gave Neal some bad news earlier today."

The bald head nodded, the glare in the other man's eyes returning. "Cruelly yanking away his freedom once again."

"It's not quite like that," Peter protested.

Mozzie held up a finger, quoting. "None who have always been free can understand the terrible fascinating power of the hope of freedom to those who are not free."

"Pearl S. Buck," Diana supplied, to which Mozzie only nodded.

Peter _wanted_ to understand, the memories of his own imprisonment a little too fresh and raw. "You're _sure_ Neal didn't see that as the last straw and plan this himself?" _And maybe a little part of him would even understand that…_

"Neal was disappointed, sure," Mozzie replied, not trying to hide his anger. "And, owing to his nearly complete submission to Stockholm Syndrome, he didn't even blame you. But he was making plans to see his attorney – given that he had, once more, been put in the line of fire, and still talked down a wanted fugitive _and killer_ , she thought he had an excellent case."

"He did," Peter admitted softly. _In a fair and perfect world…_

"Neal wouldn't have just left without me."

The anger had gone out of Mozzie's voice, replaced with a sad sincerity that finally erased Peter's doubts. "Get going on the vehicle information," he instructed his agents, fully back in ASAC mode. "I want a team out here scouring for any security cameras that might have captured something we can use to identify the men who took Neal. I want alerts out in the tri-state area in case they doubled back. And get someone to start pulling the case files from everything Neal worked on the last six months. I want to start reviewing them as soon as I get back to the office."

Jones had been frantically texting. "Blake is on his way with a team, including ERT. I'll have Westley start pulling those files in case this is job related."

Peter nodded and turned back to Mozzie. "Neal didn't say anything to you recently about being threatened?"

Mozzie shook his head. "Nothing. The only threat I knew of recently was Rachel Turner."

Diana held up her phone. "I confirmed she's still in custody at the MCC."

"I'll still want to talk to her," Peter said. "With her connections, locked up doesn't necessarily mean not involved."

"I'll set it up," Diana replied. "No one takes one of our own and gets away with it."

"No, they don't," Peter agreed. "We're going to find him."

 

* * *

 

Consciousness, such as it was, returned slowly.

Neal was first aware of motion, and he kind of wished he wasn't. The rocking and rolling and bumping was making him nauseous. And he was lying on one arm, which meant his body weight was dropping onto that arm with every bump.

He just couldn't seem to remember why he was lying like that, or what he should do to change it.

He opened his eyes – or at least he thought he did. Everything remained black, with just a hint of light that seemed to be coming up from his chest.

_That was silly. No one had a light in their chest. It wasn't like ET and the heart light…_

_Turn on your heartlight_   
_Let it shine wherever you go_   
_Let it make a happy glow_   
_For all the world to see_

_Was he actually singing, or just_ _thinking_ _the words?_

"Hey, is he waking up?"

Neal wondered who that was speaking. He didn't recognize the voice. Maybe it was someone who could explain why his eyes were open – probably – and it was still dark.

"Thought he was muttering something, but I'm not sure."

"Maybe it's time for another shot."

_Shot?_

Neal didn't think being shot sounded like a very good idea at all. Hadn't he just been shot? Or shot at? But he didn't like guns…

"Where are we anyway?"

That voice came from very nearby, and Neal wanted to say that he'd like to know the answer to that question too. But he couldn't seem to remember how to make his voice work.

"Just passing by Philadelphia."

_Philadelphia._

_City of Brotherly Love._

_Benjamin Franklin._

_The Franklin Museum._

_That was a nice museum. He'd stolen something from there…_

_He thought he had._

_But ssssshhhhh… Peter didn't know about that one!_

_Or maybe he did…_

Another bump increased the pain in Neal's shoulder, and brought him a little closer to really being conscious. Now he realized that he didn't really have a heart light after all – it was just dark, even with his eyes open, because there was something over his head.

_Right, the guy in the park, with the fancy boots. And the two men with him, the hood…_

Aware enough now to keep his breathing steady, and his movements minimal, Neal began to test his surroundings. He couldn't move his feet – probably bound together. Same thing with his hands, and the bindings felt like plastic.

Too bad, handcuffs were easier to slip than zip ties. But he'd gotten out of worse.

Another bump in the road, and it was a perfect excuse to let himself roll back just a little. That took some of the weight off his sore shoulder, and let his hands fall closer to what he was now sure was the floor of some kind of vehicle. Probably a van of some sort since he was pretty much stretched out.

Still trying to move as little as possible, he flexed his fingers, getting some feeling back. And then he slowly, carefully started to feel around behind him.

You just never knew what you might find…

 

* * *

 

By the time he got back to the Federal building, Peter was exhausted from trying to consider all of the possibilities. It wasn't the first time he'd felt that way where Neal was concerned, of course. But this time was different.

He was convinced now that Neal's disappearance wasn't a deliberate disappearing act, which meant that someone had targeted him.

Another old acquaintance from Neal's shady past? Possible, though Mozzie couldn't come up with any names, or any reasons why someone would be coming after Neal now. Nor was he aware of any past associates newly in town. And while Peter would not always consider the paranoid man a reliable source, when it came to Neal…

When it came to Neal, Mozzie's loyalty made a pretty compelling argument.

So, something case related? Neal often worked under aliases, and his name was kept out of most of the court filings. The CI had only testified once, in the Delancy case, and that had been in a closed courtroom. He had only been officially deposed in two other cases, and the transcripts used a pseudonym. But it was naïve to think that there weren't rumors, whispers. Enough people knew Neal's name to make it a real possibility that this was payback.

He climbed the steps slowly, passing his _old_ old office, heading to his _new_ old office. Except now it was his new office again – or at least his new temporary office, subject to the search for a permanent ASAC for the New York area.

He'd cleared out all his personal items, and the room had seemed so barren when he took the final box out and turned out the lights. _Was it really just last night…_

It wasn't barren any longer, however. His diligent agents had, indeed, pulled case files – and judging by the looks of the small mountains on the desk, Neal had touched a lot of cases.

Peter tossed his jacket over the back of the chair and rolled up his sleeves as he looked at the sticky notes attached to the top folder in each stack. Someone – it looked like Westley's handwriting – had already started to categorize the cases.

The pile on the far left was labelled as containing the case files taken from Neal's desk. But as far as anyone had been able to tell, Neal hadn't actually reviewed or made notes on those files yet.

Peter agreed with the notation that these were most likely not relevant to the CI's disappearance and moved on.

The second pile contained files that Neal had reviewed, but where he had come up with no leads. Again, not likely to have gotten anyone's attention to be relevant now.

The next set of cases had been reviewed by Neal, with a few notes in each, but they hadn't moved any further. No active investigation had been started. A quick glance showed that most of them had been cold cases – a lot of mortgage fraud, always Neal's favorite. The cases would be pending review by an agent to see if further action was warranted.

Again, crimes that no one outside the unit was even aware were being investigated by the FBI, much less that Neal had reviewed the files. Highly unlikely that they would be relevant to a kidnapping.

The next stack was slightly more promising. These were cases that had led to investigations, sometimes even to undercover operations, but hadn't proceeded to actual arrests… yet. Those files would need closer review to see if any of the suspects might have tipped to the Bureau's interest in their activities.

And then there were the case files that had been closed by virtue of suspects being arrested. Again, many of them had featured Neal's involvement in getting confessions or other evidence. Some had already been resolved with plea bargains, while others were slowly making their way through the pre-trial process.

It was a big stack of files, and Peter could think of half a dozen or so names from those cases just off the top of his head who might be desperate enough to do something rash. And he hadn't even had a chance to review all of the cases the team had worked while he had been… indisposed, for six weeks. There could be more potential suspects there.

He grabbed that final stack of files and carried them toward the conference room. It was time to get some coffee, and gather some agents, and dig in.

 

* * *

 

"Hey, the Whitman service area is coming up. Pull in."

"Why? We don't need gas."

"Well, I gotta take a leak."

The drug-induced haze was wearing off, and Neal perked up at the conversation. If they were approaching a service area, they must be on the turnpike. And if they were actually stopping, he might have a chance to get away.

His blind search had yielded a small first aid kit stuffed in a cubby hole behind one panel. There was even a small pair of scissors. Unfortunately, the tips weren't sharp, so he couldn't just depress the little release on the zip ties. And the blades on the implement were more designed for cutting surgical tape and gauze than hard plastic. But through sheer determination, he'd made progress, and he could feel some give in the plastic binding his wrists.

If all three men got out when they stopped, and they believed he was still unconscious, this just might work.

"Is he still out?"

A toe prodded him, and Neal forced himself to stay very still. The fact that the hood was still over his head meant that there was no chance a facial reaction would give him away.

"Yeah, he's out."

He could feel the vehicle decelerating, and then there was a different sound to the road as they left the highway and moved onto the exit. They slowed some more, made a couple of turns, and then came to a stop. He heard and felt when the engine was shut off, and then there was the sound of doors opening.

_One, two, three…_

The back of the van rocked as the man who had been sitting near him climbed out the back door. And once the three doors had been slammed shut again, silence reigned.

Neal still waited a long moment, holding his breath and trying to ignore the excessively loud beating of his heart. He wanted to make sure he was alone…

But he couldn't wait too long, or his chance might be gone. And who knew where they were headed, or how long it might be before they stopped again.

He felt he was alone, and he trusted his senses. Gather all the strength he could, he tensed his arm muscles and pulled.

At first, nothing happened. But then, all of a sudden, the plastic gave way, and his hands were free.

His fingers were tingling from the bondage, and his left arm was a little numb from the time he'd spent lying on it. But Neal forced himself to move past that. He pulled the hood off, blinking rapidly as the light hit his eyes.

Now that he could see again, he located a tool kit near the back door. A pair of wire cutters made quick work of the ties binding his ankles.

Motion outside the front of the vehicle caught his attention, and he saw a highway patrol car pulling into a parking space across the way.

_Perfect._

He opened the back door and slowly climbed out, testing his legs after not being used for a while. He still felt a little shaky, probably an after-effect of whatever drug they had given him, but he had to try this. He stepped around the side of the van…

And ran straight into the guy with the fancy boots.

It was hard to tell which of them was more surprised at the encounter. But Neal recovered quickly – it was kind of like, hypothetically, being in a museum in the middle of the night and encountering a guard who wasn't supposed to be there. He feinted left, then made a quick move to the right.

In a perfect world, one where he hadn't been drugged and then bounced around on the floor of a van for hours, he might have made it. But Fancy Boots wasn't too far behind in his reaction time, and he managed to grab Neal's arm. Neal shook him off, but the delay was costly. The other two kidnappers were on the way back to the van, and they came running.

Neal threw caution to the wind and did what he hoped would be the last thing they'd expect – he lowered his shoulder and ran right toward the two men. They were surprised, but it wasn't enough.

The men had parked the vehicle well off to one side of the lot, with no one else very close. And Neal knew the paneled van was blocking what was happening from view for most of the other patrons who might be there. But they could _hear_ him…

He opened his mouth to yell, call for help – and then doubled over as a heavy fist pounded into his gut, taking his breath away.

More blows rained down, and he couldn't block all of them. He was being driven back, toward the door he had just climbed out of.

_He really wished Peter had agreed to his request for combat training…_

The three men had him boxed in, driving him back. One of the men managed to pin his arms behind him against the vehicle even as another blow felt like it might have cracked a rib.

And then he felt the needle, sliding under the skin of his neck. He made one last attempt to cry out, but his voice had become nothing more than a garbled, breathless whisper.

They pushed him back into the van, the hood was pulled over his head once more, and consciousness faded.

 

* * *

 

Peter stood at the end of the conference table, staring in frustration at the chaos there. Stacks of case files were strewn here and there, all of them reviewed and debated as sources of a possible threat. But none had seemed likely.

Open laptops dotted the edges of the table. His agents had been meticulous, tracking down the whereabouts of suspects not incarcerated, looking for any links to people on the outside who might hold a grudge. There were still trails to be followed, but they were becoming smaller and weaker all the time.

Jones had been diligently following various law enforcement updates on the search for a dark grey van. Unfortunately, the partial license plate number that Mozzie had provided didn't match up to any similar type of vehicle. They did, however, get a hit on 19076-JI – as the license plate of a Hyundai Tucson SUV stolen from a driveway on the outskirts of Newark the day before. The odds were that car thieves savvy enough to steal a plate like that would also know to change it back as soon as possible to throw law enforcement off the scent. So now all they had was the description of the van itself, assuming that the kidnappers hadn't already switched vehicles. And so far they hadn't been able to track the van more than a few blocks on the New Jersey side of the tunnel.

They did have some blurry video from near the park which seemed to confirm Mozzie's account of what happened. Unfortunately, the camera was at too oblique an angle to get a clear picture of the people involved. And traffic cams confirmed what the street sources had already reported – the van headed into the tunnel.

The anklet, though cut, had still transmitted a signal, and they found it in the back of a pickup belonging to a landscaping company. The owner and the employees who had been using the truck that day had been wary but cooperative, and the Peter Burke gut detector was pretty much convinced that none of them were involved in Neal's disappearance. Blake and Westley were following up on the names of clients whose yards had been serviced that day, and there were still a few people to contact the next day, but he thought it unlikely that any connection would be found. In fact, if there turned out to be any help from the landscapers, it would come when the men came to the office in the morning to talk with one of the bureau's forensic psychologists to see if they could recall any details about seeing the van or the driver.

Peter's gut was fairly screaming at him that Neal's most recent romantic partner might well be involved, but talking to her was proving to be difficult. Diana had been on the phone with the Metropolitan Correctional Center for quite a while. The MCC confirmed that Rachel Turner was, indeed, still safely locked up. But she was refusing to talk to anyone from the FBI without an attorney present, and that couldn't be arranged until the next day.

Peter had his doubts about that – anyone with Turner's background and resources could get a lawyer there. So this was probably just a delaying tactic on her part. But was the delay because she actually _was_ involved somehow and needed time for her people to get Neal safely stashed away? Or was she just playing control games with the FBI?

Either scenario was plausible.

Night had fallen, and he'd finally sent the other agents out with orders to take a break and get some food. He should probably take his own advice…

Well, Jones had said he'd bring back an extra portion, so Peter figured he wouldn't starve. But maybe it was time to do something to take a little break from reviewing case files and evidence.

It was Elizabeth's last night in New York, and he wouldn't be going home anytime soon.

Sighing, he picked up his phone…


	3. Arrival

He was vaguely aware when the vehicle slowed down, and began stopping periodically. It probably meant something, but in his drug-muddled state, Neal wasn't sure exactly what that was.

At one point there were some very abrupt stops, and the sound of horns honking. It all made his head hurt, but it did rouse him a bit from his stupor.

It didn't take long to figure out that he'd been bound again. And when he moved a little, a foot was planted on his chest, along with a hissed order to stay still.

Probably a good idea under the circumstances, Neal decided. He wasn't thinking very clearly at the moment.

The van went over a series of bumps, and then seemed to be spiraling downward; not a good feeling when you've been drugged and you're lying prone on the floor of said van. And breathing deep, with the hood back over his head, just induced a highly claustrophobic reaction, and for a moment he thought he couldn't breathe at all.

But then they stopped, and he could feel whoever was in back with him moving. A door opened, and he wouldn't exactly call the air fresh, but at least it was a little better.

Hands grasped at his feet, and he kicked weakly at them. It was futile, but it helped get some feeling back in his legs. They stopped briefly just as he felt the solid surface disappear from under his feet – _must be at the back edge of the van_ – and he heard, then felt, the ties binding his feet being cut. And then those hands were reaching for him again, pulling on his arms, yanking him upright.

Left on his own just then, Neal probably would have stumbled. But his captors had a firm hold on his arms and they propelled him along.

He tried – really tried – to keep track of the turns they made as they hurried him along. But the darkness under the hood was disorienting, and the drugs were still keeping him from thinking clearly. They were indoors though, he was pretty sure of that. There was no breeze, no smell or sound of the outdoors; in fact, no real sound at all except the echoes of their footsteps. He was pretty sure they were in an elevator at one point, going further down. And then walking, walking, walking again, through corridors that seemed endless.

They finally paused, and Neal heard electronic locks disengaging. A door opened, he felt the breeze of its passage. And then he was pulled forward again.

The doors clanged shut, and from the echo, he guessed they were in a pretty good-sized chamber. And there were other sounds now, people moving, footsteps coming closer, a gentle waft of cologne.

His captors stopped, still gripping his arms tightly. And then, a voice that gave him chills.

"Well, well, well. Hello, Neal."

Even drugged and beaten, he knew that smarmy voice. And as they finally removed the hood, his guess was confirmed. "Kramer."

 

* * *

 

Mozzie leaned over the table at New Wednesday, studying the large-scale map laid out. He had sticky notes all around with the updates that Kato was gathering across the room.

As near as he could tell, the van they were looking for had gotten onto the Jersey turnpike and headed south. But once out of the Newark metro area, traffic cameras became fewer and farther between, so getting images was difficult. And even with limited exits, there were still a lot of possibilities for a destination.

Sally had said she could obtain images from the service centers along the way. If the van stopped at any of them, they might get some updated images. She hoped to have made entry into the computer system soon.

The problem was, the turnpike, and the arteries that branched off of it, just covered so much space. It wasn't like in the city itself, where it had taken mere minutes to start passing the word that he was looking for the van, and only minutes more before eyes were watching from all over the city.

It was much the same problem he and Neal had faced when searching for James Bennett. If the man had stayed in New York, he would have been found.

Of course, Bennett probably knew that, and thus had made it his first priority to get out of the city.

Still, distance alone wouldn't deter Mozzie's search. Outside of Mr. Jeffries, Neal was the best friend he had ever known – or would ever have. And there was very little in the world Mozzie wouldn't do for him.

He'd even work with the FBI.

Sighing, Mozzie reached for his phone. Time to check in with The Suit and see if there was any news on the Fed front, and share what he had found out. At present, their goals coincided.

He pulled up the speed dial number – and then turned on his scrambler.

He'd coordinate with the suits to find Neal, but he certainly wasn't going to give up the location of New Wednesday without a really good reason.

 

* * *

 

"I suppose you have a few questions."

Instead of snapping off a quick, snarky reply to Kramer's question, Neal took a moment to look around. His previous impression was quickly confirmed – the room they were in was huge, and much of it was in deep shadow so he couldn't even really accurately judge the size. Off to one side, there was a large circular table, under one of the few lights in the chamber; it kind of reminded him of a scene from a movie. The _Star Chamber_ perhaps?

"I imagine asking you to point me toward the exit is off the table?" _Or maybe at least to some aspirin – he had a monster of a headache…_

Kramer smiled, or maybe it was a grimace; in the semi-darkness it was hard to tell. "Yes, I'm afraid that question is off limits. But I'm sure there are others I can answer. For example, would you like to know where you are?"

"Camelot," Neal said, gesturing toward the area under the light. "That must be for the Knights of the Round Table, right?"

"Good guess," Kramer replied, still smiling. "But wrong, I'm afraid. You're in Washington, DC."

Neal let that sink in for a moment. "I don't see the Washington Monument."

Now Kramer laughed, and the sound was chilling. "No, I suppose not. Though we're not really very far from it. There's just the little matter of being far underground."

_So the feeling of going down in an elevator had been correct…_ "Underground," Neal repeated.

Kramer nodded. "We are underneath the Smithsonian Institution. So, you see, it may not be Camelot, but there is a castle involved – the Smithsonian Castle." He gestured around the room. "This chamber was built by the Masons back when the original construction was done."

"So this is some kind of secret Mason temple?"

"Oh, no. We're not Masons."

"Masons don't allow women to join, Neal."

He knew that new voice, and he wished he didn't. Still, Neal forced himself to turn toward the person walking up on his left. "Callaway." _He'd heard she wound up in Art Crimes after the Pratt investigation wound down…_

Amanda Callaway smiled, though it was anything _but_ friendly. "You certainly do have a way of complicating things, Neal."

He gave her one of his phoniest smiles. "I'm told it's one of my talents."

"Are you familiar with the Bilderberg Group?" Kramer asked.

Neal turned his attention back to the older agent. "Sure. It's an international gathering of business and political leaders. They try to influence decisions around the world to benefit their goals of money and power. Some say they can even control the leadership of some countries."

Kramer waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, they'd like to _think_ they have control."

"Bilderberg play acts at control," Callaway added.

"This," Kramer said, taking a step toward the table and holding his hands out. "This is where the true control lies. Do you know what the word _gewalt_ means, Neal?"

"Power," Neal replied quickly; German was one of his better languages. "But more than that, it implies violence or force, control."

Kramer nodded his approval. "We are the Gewalt Group, comprised of some of the most influential people in government and business in this country. We coordinate with other chapters in key nations around the world."

"With a goal of global control?" Neal guessed.

"Something like that," Kramer agreed. "Though we're more concerned with controlling resources than with the actual governments."

"Unless they get in our way, of course," Callaway added.

"Of course." _Mozzie would_ _love_ _this – a government conspiracy come to life…_ "So did you bring me here to offer me a lifetime membership?" Neal twisted to one side, showing his still-bound hands. "You have a funny way of issuing invitations." His three captors were still visible as well, standing off to the side at the edge of the shadows.

Amanda Callaway laughed. "Oh, that's priceless. You actually think _you're_ important enough to be asked to join?"

"Well, they apparently let _you_ in," Neal snapped back. It might not have been the best move, but he had a monster headache, probably from the drugs and bouncing in a van for hours, and they had had him _kidnapped_ so maybe he didn't really care at the moment.

Even in the semi-darkness he could see Callaway's face reddening. "Why you…"

Kramer stepped in between them. "Amanda's family has been a highly valued part of the Gewalt group for many generations," he said, all traces of even pseudo-friendliness gone from his voice.

Neal decided he actually appreciated that – the game was getting old. "So what is it you do want from me?" he demanded.

"You have certain skills that will be useful for us," Kramer explained.

"And you're going to use those skills to get back something that should have been ours," Callaway said. "Something that _would_ have been ours if you hadn't messed up the plan."

_Now_ _that_ _was interesting…_ "And what might this item be?" Neal asked.

"The blue diamond," Kramer replied.

For a long moment, Neal just stared at him. "Rachel Turner was working for you."

Kramer was smiling again, and Neal wished he had a way to make the older man _stop_ that. "Very good," the agent said. "When the boys said they had to drug you twice, I was worried it might take longer for your mental acuity to return."

"That's how she got all those files on everyone," Neal started.

"It's not hard to gather information on people if you have the right contacts," Callaway said.

"But why the diamond?" Neal asked.

"Besides the history of the stone, and the prestige of owning it?" Kramer asked. "Money. That diamond was going to finance a very important operation. And you're going to help us retrieve it."

It was Neal's turn to laugh. "You're too late. I gave the diamond to Peter, and he's turned it over to State by now."

Kramer nodded. "I know he has. Our people have confirmed that, and at the moment it's inaccessible. But sooner or later the stone will be moved, probably to one of three locations here in the city. And when that happens, you'll help plan and execute the perfect heist to retrieve it."

"And then what, you'll just let me go?" Neal asked.

"Oh, probably not. I think it's most likely that you'll be with us for a long time," Kramer replied. "But your cooperation will go a long way toward determining how comfortable your stay here will be."

_And there it was, the first threat, as vaguely worded as it might have been…_ "People will be looking for me, you know," Neal said, hoping his voice sounded stronger than it felt.

Kramer's answering smile was chilling. "The Gewalt Group has existed in secrecy for generations, and this location is known to fewer than one hundred living people." He moved closer, until Neal could feel the older man's breath on his neck. "They can look, but they won't find." The agent stepped back and waved the three kidnappers closer. "Take him to the suite we prepared," he directed. "And then I think it's best that you boys take a long vacation, somewhere well away from New York. Payments have been sent to your accounts."

Neal felt hands gripping his arms, leading him away. He gave some thought to resisting, trying to stay longer and get more information. But between his pounding headache, and attempting to process what he had just heard – that his imprisonment here was intended to be long term – he knew he wasn't at his best. And so he cooperated, walking along without protest.

Better at this point to take a break, recover from today, and then start over. After all, if there was a way in, there had to be a way out…

 

* * *

 

"All right, got it. Thanks, Mozzie. Let me know if Sally finds anything."

Peter disconnected the call and then sat there, staring at his phone. He wasn't really sure how long he'd been there like that when he was finally startled back to the present by a bag being plunked down in front of him.

"You have some news?" Diana asked, taking a seat next to him.

"Mozzie's sources have tracked the van onto the Jersey turnpike, heading south," Peter replied. "Sally is trying to get into the system to check surveillance cameras at the service centers."

Jones set a cup of coffee – very large and steaming hot – on the table and let out a low whistle of appreciation. "The Vulture. Good to have her on our side."

Peter nodded, removing the lid from the cup. "I shouldn't even know about that," he muttered, breathing in deeply as the aroma of the brew seemed to revive him a bit. "But you're right, she's good, and if the van stopped anywhere at one of the centers, she'll know before we will." He turned to Diana. "Put a rush on the warrants for the turnpike video, just so we're covered. We have a confidential informant saying the van was seen there."

Diana was already typing on her laptop. "You got it, boss."

Peter dug into the bag and pulled out a sandwich from a local deli. He unwrapped it, noting that it looked like a club sandwich. Jones and Diana didn't complain about his revered deviled ham as much as Neal did, but…

He set the sandwich down, and willed himself not to follow that line of thought any further. Thinking about what Neal would have done or said about a sandwich wouldn't get them any closer to finding their missing colleague.

Peter gestured at the case files and reports laid out around them. "All right, what are we missing…"

 

* * *

 

The "suite" certainly wasn't up to par with what one might find at the Four Seasons, or the Palazzo Sasso. But all in all, it wasn't that bad, Neal acknowledged.

Well, except for the part about having been drugged and brought here against his will. And the fact that he couldn't leave.

There was a small kitchenette just inside the door, with the basics of a stove, refrigerator, sink, microwave, and some cupboards. An open dining bar at one end separated the cooking space from a living area that contained two large, overstuffed recliners, a dinette table with three chairs, a desk with a computer, and a decent sized flat screen television hanging on the far end of the room.

Off to the right there was a pony wall, and beyond that what appeared to be a queen-sized bed, flanked by two nightstands. A chest of drawers and an armoire stood against one wall. On the corner, almost across from the bar, there was a pocket door opening on a small linen closet filled with bedding and towels. Another closet with a folding door contained a stacking washer and dryer set. And next to that the only actual door inside the quarters led to a bathroom.

Kramer had followed them in, and pointed out some of the facts of life. The computer had internal access only, no internet. If Neal needed certain information for the assignments he'd be given, he could send a request to one of the group's researchers and the material would be provided.

There were some basic provisions in the kitchen, and Kramer had even taken a drink from a random bottle of water that Neal selected from the refrigerator. As the agent pointed out, the drugs to _get_ him there had been necessary, but they needed him with a clear mind now.

Kramer showed him an application on the computer that would let him make up a shopping list for any food and beverage items Neal might want. It would all be reviewed before being approved, of course.

_Of course…_

Then, they had made him strip. His captors had already taken the obvious things like his phone and wallet, but Kramer explained they couldn't take a chance on Neal having any tools on him that might be used to facilitate an escape. And, of course, he _did_ have several picks hidden, but they kept a fairly close eye on him, and he wasn't given much time. They did, however, at least give him the small amount of privacy of being able to change behind the pony wall, and he managed to slip one pick out of the waistband of his pants and kick it under the bed.

A single pick might not be of much use, but it was _something_.

They had provided new "clothing" – medical scrubs, and some cheap canvas shoes. All in all, even though the scrubs weren't orange, it reminded him a lot of prison wear. The one saving grace, such as it was, came in the form of new underwear, still in sealed packages.

His old clothing disappeared as the kidnappers exited the room. They stood just outside in the hallway as Kramer wished him a good night – and gave a rather disconcerting promise that Neal would get his first assignment in the morning. And then the agent left, and Neal found himself alone.

He spent a little time checking things out. There was no lock on the inside of the door to be picked – in fact, there wasn't even a handle. But he'd seen the electronic lock on the outside when they'd brought him in, and he heard the lock being engaged after Kramer left.

Well, he wouldn't have expected an escape to be easy.

A quick search turned up no obvious cameras or hidden microphones. He'd do a more thorough search later. Because he was quickly having to acknowledge that the drugs and the resulting fatigue and a lack of food were combining to make him feel sick.

He downed a whole bottle of water, hoping it would help flush the rest of the drugs out of his system. Then he explored the bathroom, finding all of the basic grooming essentials had been provided. _Though really, he was going to have to insist on an upgrade in the brand of shampoo and conditioner…_

Finally, he pulled a set of sheets out of the closet, made up the bed, and then dropped wearily into its comforting embrace. Having no idea what time it was, or how long he might have until they came for him again, what he needed most right now was some rest. He'd learned early on after leaving home that sleep could be as effective a weapon as a quick wit when it came to getting out of tough situations.

So, he'd get some sleep, hopefully wake up refreshed…

And then he'd be in better shape to start planning an escape.


	4. New Reality

It was after midnight when Peter finally stumbled into the house. Not surprisingly, there were still lights glowing on the second floor, and he wearily made his way up the stairs, shedding his jacket and tie as he went.

He found Elizabeth in the bedroom, just taping up what appeared to be the last open box. She turned as he paused in the doorway. "Peter? Is there any news?"

He shook his head, tossing his jacket on top of a stack of boxes that his name on them. "We've confirmed Neal was grabbed, and Mozzie's sources have tracked the van heading south on the turnpike."

"Yeah, he's called a couple of times." She dropped the tape dispenser and walked over to him, wrapping him in a hug. "He's really worried about Neal."

Peter returned the hug, just drinking in the feeling for a long moment before replying. "I know. His certainty that Neal wouldn't run without him is what finally convinced me."

"You'll find him, Peter. You always do."

_But every streak has to end sometime…_ "I will find him," Peter managed to say, hoping that it sounded more convincing out loud than what he felt. "I will."

 

* * *

 

He woke, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings. But then memories of the previous day came rushing back.

Neal squeezed his eyes shut, trying to convince himself that it had all been a dream – a ghastly, terrible nightmare. _Maybe he'd just had too much wine with Mozzie…_

He opened his eyes again, and the pretense of his situation being a dream vanished. He was pretty sure that he really was awake now, and this was definitely not his loft at June's, nor was it any of Mozzie's new safe houses.

So the whole kidnapping and drugging thing was probably real, and not a dream.

He pushed himself up to a seated position and waited for his equilibrium to steady. And then he got to his feet and made his way to the bathroom.

It looked much the same as what he remembered from his brief exploration the night before. There was no tub, but there was a glass-enclosed shower in the far corner. And a good, hot shower had always had refreshing powers in his experience.

He went back and grabbed a bath towel from the linen closet, stripped off the scrubs he had slept in, leaving them in a pile outside the laundry cubby, relieved the building pressure in his bladder, and then turned on the shower, running the water as hot as he could stand it.

He'd feel better after a shower, and then he'd explore his cage a bit more. Every good escape started with that first step.

 

* * *

 

He woke, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings. But then he realized that the bed itself was familiar – it was just the mountains of boxes surrounding him that were different.

Peter pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. The alarm clock had been packed – he had no idea if it was in one of El's boxes or his – but a quick glance out the window showed that dawn hadn't quite fully colored the eastern sky yet.

He glanced over his shoulder, where Elizabeth was still sound asleep. She had, once again, amazed him with her organizational skills. Not only had she completed repacking the boxes to sort what was going to Georgetown with her and what stayed in New York with him, she had also arranged for a second moving van to come at the end of the week. And, knowing that he would be useless in making such arrangements until Neal was found, she had reserved a storage unit for his belongings to be taken to.

She had even, somehow, convinced Mozzie to give up the location of one of his safe houses to be used as a temporary abode by a soon-to-be-homeless FBI agent. There was a note with an address and the location of a key on the kitchen counter.

Peter unplugged his cell phone from the charger and got to his feet, padding as silently as he could toward the bathroom. He could check his messages, see if anything new had come up overnight, and then shower and get ready for the day. Unless something urgent had been discovered he'd already told his team he'd be in a little later. He planned to be there when the movers came at eight o'clock.

And then he had to figure out how to say goodbye to his wife as she headed off to a new life without him.

 

* * *

 

The shower did help, and Neal almost felt like himself again by the time he finished. And he would have to give his captors a bit of grudging credit – the bath towels were of a decent quality, large and soft.

He found a decent electric toothbrush in the cabinet, along with toothpaste, and that helped get rid of the cottony feeling in his mouth, probably a remnant of the drugs. There was also an electric razor, reasonable quality, but he decided to pass on shaving for the moment.

The armoire contained more sets of scrubs, all of them dark blue. _Well, no need for a lengthy decision making process on what to wear…_

He dressed, but elected to leave the shoes off for the time being. And then he headed for the kitchen. The previous evening's nausea had given way to undeniable pangs of hunger – not really surprising since he hadn't eaten since breakfast the day before.

The refrigerator yielded orange juice and yogurt. He quickly downed two glasses of the juice, and emptied three yogurt cups. Then he searched until he found the other necessity for the morning. The coffee was pre-ground, and definitely not Italian roast, but it was full octane and that's what he needed right now. He started the coffee maker and then began a more thorough investigation of the kitchen while he waited.

Whoever had planned this had done well to give him very little to work with in executing an escape. He found flatware, lots of it – all plastic. Functional for eating yogurt, but not the most helpful for jimmying locks. There were cups – plastic for cold beverages, and Styrofoam for hot. The selection of plates, in various sizes, came in the same materials. Not much help if he was looking for something to break and get a sharp tool. Even the pot for the coffee maker had had a large transparent sticker on it warning that it was made of safety glass, and would simply shatter upon impact.

A closer examination showed that the cabinets were all opened by simply putting his fingers in a groove along the door or drawer – no handles to be taken off and used as tools. And he realized the cabinets in the bathroom and the bedroom had the same construction.

The stove had a flat cooktop, and it had been securely fastened in place; try as he might, he couldn't move it. Likewise, the microwave was built in over the stove, with no easy access to the back where he might have been able to open it and use pieces as tools. The pots and pans were lightweight, probably not very effective as a weapon. And all of the cooking utensils were nylon or silicone, equally dubious as useful weapons or escape tools.

Under the sink he found dish soap and some sponges. _Not even any good cleaning solutions to mix together based on lengthy discussions – usually alcohol-fueled – with Mozzie about how world domination could be achieved based on what most people innocently kept on hand…_

When the kitchen failed to yield anything of immediate interest, Neal moved on to the living room. In addition to looking for anything useful as a weapon or escape tool, he also checked carefully for microphones or cameras. Fortunately, he didn't find any sign that anyone was watching or listening to him.

Unfortunately, he still found nothing useful for getting out of his new prison.

Everything was securely fastened in place, or tightly sealed, or both. Even the remote seemed to have been closed up tight, with an obvious layer of an adhesive bond holding the two halves together, and closing off the battery compartment – highly inefficient if those batteries needed to be changed.

_He tried not to think about being there long enough to kill the batteries…_

He might not be able to open the remote, but it did seem to function. And it appeared that his captors had provided him with a satellite service; the channel guide showed a lengthy list of available options. In the end he left the display on one of the news channels, which finally informed him that it was a little before seven o'clock in the morning. Without a window for reference, and with so much of the previous day either missing or muddled in his mind, he really hadn't been sure what time of day or night it might have been.

Neal continued his search, letting the news play in the background. Unfortunately, there didn't seem to be any breaking news about an FBI consultant kidnapped on the streets of New York the day before.

Peter would be looking for him, of course; that was one of the few certainties in life. But whether he was looking for a kidnap victim or an escapee was another question.

Neal sat down at the desk and powered on the computer. As he'd been warned, there was no internet connection available – and in that moment he kind of wished he'd paid a little more attention to the hacking world. After all, he was reputed to be a "technological virtuoso," but he most definitely had limitations in that area.

There was an icon titled "Request Research" on the screen, but when he clicked on it, there was just a message that the feature hadn't been activated by Kramer yet.

He did find a link to the shopping list Kramer had promised. And the selections even included a decent assortment of wines that he could order. That was something to keep in mind if he really couldn't find a way out.

But he certainly wasn't ready to give up on that idea yet. He had, after all, walked out of a maximum security prison. Of course, he'd had three years to study his surroundings, and way too many _LONG_ nights to lay awake and run through plans in his head.

Hopefully he wouldn't be here that long.

 

* * *

 

The coffeemaker and two mugs were among the few items that Elizabeth hadn't packed up, and Peter had coffee ready when she came downstairs just after seven. They sat on the floor, side by side, soaking in the warmth and strength of that physical contact.

Knowing it would be the last for a while.

Even Satchmo seemed to understand that something was changing. The last few days, he'd simply treated the maze of boxes in his house as a challenge, new items to sniff. But now he lay quietly at their feet, head on his paws, just watching his humans.

The movers were prompt, ringing the doorbell just two minutes after eight o'clock. And it didn't take long for Elizabeth to walk them through the house, giving very precise instructions on what should be put on the truck and what would be left behind for the next group.

And then it was time to clear out and make way for them to work. Their neighbor, Mary Dunphee, was the designated contact for any questions, and she had a key to lock the house up once the movers were done.

Peter took the last of Elizabeth's things out and loaded them into the car while she was busy inside. Then he sat on the front steps with his dog for a few minutes before finally walking with him to the curb. Satchmo always loved going for rides, so he bounded eagerly into the back seat.

Finally, Elizabeth came out of the house and Peter met her at the door. Hand in hand they walked down the steps for the final time. When they got to the car he turned and pulled her into his arms, holding her tight. The last thing he wanted was to let her go.

No, the last thing he wanted was to hold her back.

_Right?_

She finally sighed and took half a step back, looking up at him. "Peter, I can still change my plans. Maybe I should stay, until there's word about Neal."

_And oh how he wanted to say yes to that offer…_

"We don't know how long that might be, El. And the National Gallery is waiting for you."

"I know. I just hate leaving you along at a time like this."

"I'll be putting in some pretty long hours, you know that. We'd barely see each other anyway." He tried to smile, hoped it looked reassuring. "I promise I will keep you updated."

"You'd better."

His resolve was wavering, so Peter kissed her and then reached over and opened the driver's side door. "You call me when you get to the house. And if you have any trouble on the way."

"I will."

"I love you, hon."

"Love you, hon."

It looked like she was going to say something else, but then she turned and climbed into the car. And he had no other words to offer so he gently closed the door behind her and then forced himself to step back.

Even as tears threatened to blur his vision, it didn't escape his attention that El kept her gaze fixed straight ahead as she buckled her seatbelt, started the car, and pulled away from the curb. He was pretty sure he saw her wipe at her own eyes as she reached the corner and signaled a turn.

Then she was gone from sight.

And Peter knew, without a doubt that watching her go was the hardest thing he had ever done.

 

* * *

 

It was just after nine o'clock when they came for him.

By that time, Neal was as certain as he could be that there were no hidden microphones or cameras in the room. Unfortunately, he was also certain that the room held little, if anything, in the way of tools to assist with an escape. And short of throwing a pot of coffee in a guard's face, he hadn't come up with anything very useful as a weapon.

That's not to say he hadn't accomplished something, however. He located the small pick he'd kicked under the bed – his one, tiny tool – and found a good hiding spot for it. Alone, it wasn't much – but knowing it was there gave him some small comfort.

He'd also completed his initial grocery list. The options he had to choose from were actually quite stellar, including some delicacies he hadn't had for years. And he made sure to request the most expensive wines from the available choices. Moz would be annoyed that he missed out…

Assuming Neal had a chance to share the wine list with him at some point.

And there was no reason – yet – to assume otherwise. He'd only been awake, and un-drugged, for a couple of hours. If there _was_ a way out, he'd find it.

He _had_ found an e-reader in the desk drawer, and an impressive library of available titles on the computer. He was in the process of downloading all of them when the door opened and Kramer walked in.

The agent didn't say anything, and Neal decided to play along. He kept his attention on the progress bar on the device in his hand.

"You seem to be making yourself right at home, Neal," Kramer said as he came closer.

Neal shrugged nonchalantly. "I like to read."

"Obviously," Kramer said. "And eat, and drink, apparently."

"You want something from me, I expect something in return." Neal got up and walked around the desk, perfectly stifling a smile as Kramer took a step back. Beyond the agent he could see two men by the doorway – standard thug types with big muscles and gun-shaped bulges under their jackets. "Is this where you tell me more about what it is you expect me to do?"

"It is indeed. We don't have word about the diamond yet, but we have a number of other tasks that you are, shall we say, uniquely suited for."

"I'm intrigued." Neal judged his chances of getting by the human roadblock at the door as approximately zero, so no sense in not playing along. The more he did that, the easier it might be to get his captors to make a mistake that he could capitalize on later. "But I'm afraid I don't have anything presentable to wear to anything formal," he added, gesturing at the scrubs.

"Well, fortunately, you'll find that we have a relaxed dress code for the help around here," Kramer replied. "Though you might want your shoes."

Neal nodded and walked into the bedroom. He retrieved the simple canvas shoes from the armoire and sat down on the edge of the bed to put them on.

Not surprisingly, they fit.

_It had been fun to tweak Peter about knowing his shoe size during their chase. But this… this was bordering on the creepy._

He wouldn't _show_ his unease, however, and when he stood up again, it was with what he considered to be the appropriate mix of confidence and apprehension. Seeming over-confident could actually lead his captors to be more suspicious of him; likewise, showing too much fear would play into their hands. They wanted something from him, and he knew it, so he also knew he had some value to them.

Kramer gestured toward the door, and the two guards stepped aside to let first the agent and then Neal walk through. And then they closed ranks to bring up the rear as Neal got his first real look at his new – temporary – home.

 

* * *

 

By the time he got to the office, Peter had listened to voicemails from Jones, Diana, Blake, and Bruce Hall.

It seemed that Jones had arrived at the office that morning to find that several video files had been uploaded to his computer from an unidentified source. He'd run the usual security scans, and then transferred the files to a non-networked laptop before opening them.

What he found were security videos from the southbound service centers on the turnpike. And he thought Peter would find the Whitman video particularly interesting.

Diana's message had two parts. First, she had secured the warrants for the service center security videos and put in the official request – which they estimated would take three days to complete. And second, she had secured an interview with Rachel Turner to take place after the ten o'clock mandatory prisoner count at the MCC.

Blake's message had been short and to the point. The landscapers' alibis had all checked out, and there were no unusual financial transactions or anything else to indicate that they were knowingly involved in Neal's disappearance in any way.

_Not a surprise, but Peter knew it never paid to overlook any possible lead._

Bruce Hall's voicemail message was a little puzzling. The DC agent started off by saying he may have been a bit abrupt the day before, and they really needed to discuss Peter's options as soon as possible.

Peter made a mental note to call Bruce back – just as soon as he'd found Neal.

 

* * *

 

"Well, here we are."

Neal followed Kramer into the room… and stopped short at what he saw.

It was a large room – probably not as big as the chamber he'd been in the night before, but large. And it was filled with art. Paintings, sculptures, jewel encrusted boxes, all sizes and shapes.

He walked forward slowly, amazed at what he was seeing.

He recognized many of the artists as he walked. In many ways, it was almost as wondrous as when he had walked into the warehouse and seen all of the art from the U-boat.

Actually, he was pretty sure he saw a couple of pieces that had been among the haul seized when Keller had been arrested…

"Remarkable collection, isn't it."

Neal made sure his jaw wasn't hanging open before he turned back to face Kramer. "This has to be one of the most fantastic collections of art anywhere. Assuming these are all originals, of course."

Kramer smiled. "Oh, I assure you, this is _the_ greatest collection anywhere. And you'll find that there are no forgeries here." He paused. "Yet."

"Yet?"

"The blue diamond is the primary target, of course," Kramer continued. "But until we have hard target information, you need to keep busy."

"Maybe I could just sit in here and look at… everything," Neal suggested.

"Oh, I think you can do better than look, Neal."

"And just what did you have in mind?" Neal asked, though he had a pretty good idea what the answer was going to be.

"We have a lot of plans," Kramer replied. "Very expensive plans. Now, we can sell these originals, of course. But if we had some exquisite copies, we could sell those too…"

"And put more money in the coffer," Neal finished.

Kramer's grin was more of a leer, and it wasn't comforting. "You are a very bright boy, Neal."

"Yeah, one of my best qualities," Neal muttered, leaning in to take a closer look at a Rembrandt. He was actually having a little trouble breathing, but he was pretty sure it wasn't drugs this time. No, it was just being in the presence of so many masters…

"Impressive, isn't it."

Neal jerked back to the present, not sure how long he had been lost in his study. "It is." He straightened up, turning to face Kramer. "The thing is, I promised Peter I'd go straight. No more forgeries."

Kramer just smiled – again, infuriatingly. "The life where you made that promise no longer exists," the agent explained slowly. "And it would be a shame to waste a talent like yours. Not many people in the world can so perfectly capture the Degas style the way you did."

"Degas?"

Kramer's laugh sent a shiver up Neal's back. "Oh, right. We don't admit that you were the artist on that one, do we. Though I'm sure Peter suspects."

Neal wasn't going to let himself get dragged into discussing the Degas forgery. "What happens if I don't agree to do the forgeries?"

Kramer's smile disappeared. "You really don't want to find out," he said, and there was no attempt to hide the threat in his voice. He paused, making a show of looking at his watch. "Now, I have to get going. Art crimes to solve, I'm sure you understand."

"And me?" Neal asked.

"You can stay here for a bit, explore the art. Maybe decide which piece you'd like to start with." Kramer pointed at the two thugs who had escorted them to the room. "The boys here will stay with you, so you don't get lost."

"I have a pretty good sense of direction," Neal offered.

"I'm sure you do, but we wouldn't want to take a chance of you losing your way." Kramer's tone now was one of finality. "Now, we passed a Matisse near the door, and I'd suggest that as your first project. There are already several buyers interested. I've activated the research function on your computer, so you can request whatever reference materials you need. And make a list of the necessary supplies. I'll review it tonight."

Neal watched as Kramer paused to say something to the two guards, but they were too far away for him to make out the words. And then the agent walked out of the room letting the door slam shut behind him.

Neal stood where he was for a moment, ostensibly studying the Rembrandt again, but really thinking through his options…

Which, unfortunately, seemed quite slim at the moment.

As far as he could tell, this room had taken him deeper into the subterranean complex; it was, at the very least, away from the door he'd come in last night. He'd seen no other signs of an exit. They had passed a number of doors on the way here, all closed, so he had no idea where any of them might lead. And he also had no idea if they were locked. Working blind, even if he had tools to pick the locks, he could very well waste time opening a door that led to a janitor's closet.

So, as much as he hated it, his best option was probably to play along, and at least seem to cooperate. That would buy some time, and hopefully he could get more information on his situation. Maybe even find an ally…

It wasn't much of a plan, but it was probably the best he had right now. With that in mind, he turned back toward the door. At least studying the Matisse would be a pleasant way to pass some time.


	5. Find Him

Peter paced restlessly in the interview room, trying desperately to keep his impatience in check. He was waiting for his meeting with Rachel Turner, and there just seemed to be one delay after another.

He understood the need for the MCC to do a morning count, he really did. It just seemed like they could make an exception for an official FBI interview.

The facility had – frustratingly – refused, so he waited for the all-clear, which they had assured him was normally given within about fifteen minutes.

After twenty minutes his gut started churning. And thirty minutes into the wait he'd been out at the busy guard station demanding an update. And when he heard that all of the activity was because the head count showed someone missing, he feared the worst…

In fact, as he paced, he was rehearsing the chewing out he planned to deliver to the head of the facility if they had let Turner escape again.

Fortunately, the all-clear came shortly after eleven when the missing inmate was located in the infirmary. The CO who had been assigned to keep Peter in the interview room, and out of the correctional center officers' way, explained that it was just a simple clerical error that someone had missed documenting the sick call. Budget cuts meant that they were understaffed…

Peter pretty much tuned out the rest of the explanation, though he caught certain bits like the lockdown would continue until all of the officers were back in their assigned units.

He was heartily wishing for his cell phone, so he could check in with his team. But he'd had to leave that, and his gun, at the security station. Every delay was just that much longer that he was out of touch, time that his team could have found something.

And all he could do was wait…

 

* * *

 

When Neal got back to his quarters, he found that a few things had changed.

Several bags of groceries were laid out on the kitchen bar, and when he checked the refrigerator and freezer he found a number of the perishable items from his list had been put away.

There were two bottles of wine on the counter, one red and one white from the selections he had made. Someone had removed the corks, replacing them with rubber stoppers.

_Damn, he hadn't even considered the possibility of getting a corkscrew as a potential weapon… but someone had._

Someone had also brought in a pop-up mesh hamper, and picked up the scrubs and the towel he'd left on the floor outside the laundry closet. But the bed was still unmade, so apparently providing the hamper was the extent of the housekeeping services he could expect.

Perhaps most intriguingly, one of the bags smelled suspiciously like curry, and when he opened it, he found several take-out containers with still-steaming food. One was, indeed, a curried chicken dish, another had beef and broccoli, while a third held rice. The bag even contained chopsticks.

Someone definitely knew his tastes, and that was more than a little disconcerting.

Still, he needed to eat so that he'd be strong enough to take advantage of any escape opportunities that came up. So there was no reason to pass up food that smelled delicious.

He dished up a plate, poured a glass of wine, and settled in at the computer. Sure enough, the research icon worked now, and opened up a library of the resources he could request.

Neal took a few bites of food, and a sip of wine, and then he started scrolling through what was available. Sure, he'd ask for a few art references, to keep up appearances, but there just might be some other, seemingly innocuous, items that could prove useful.

 

* * *

 

It was after noon by the time Peter finally got to meet with Rachel Turner.

He'd heard the announcement of lunch service starting, and feared it would be another delay. But then the door opened, and she walked in.

Well, shuffled in was probably more like it. He was glad to see that the leg, waist, and wrist chains all appeared to be tightly fastened.

There was a burly guard at each arm, and they escorted her to the table, fastening the cuffs to a steel loop that was bolted on. Once they tugged on the chains, proving the connection was secure, Peter took a seat across from her.

"Where's her attorney?" Peter asked, expecting to see someone else coming into the room.

"She waived legal counsel for the visit," one of the men replied. He laid a signed waiver form on the table.

Peter bit back an angry outburst about her request for an attorney the day before. Without that, they might have been able to have this conversation then and be done with it. But he needed her help – or he at least needed her to tell the truth – and starting out in anger probably wouldn't help.

The guards left, the door closed behind them, and Rachel turned to face him. "Well, well, Agent Burke, this is such a pleasant surprise. Though, of course, it would have been more pleasant if you'd brought Neal with you."

He studied her, not answering for a long moment. If she knew nothing about Neal's abduction, it was a normal statement to make – or at least, as normal as anything he'd credit to her.

Of course, given all of the deceptions she'd already pulled, it could also be a classic misdirect if she _was_ involved.

With Rachel Turner, it was hard to tell which option might be true.

"Actually, I wanted to talk about Neal," he finally said. He opened the folder he'd brought with him and laid out the clearest photo they'd been able to get of Neal being pushed into the van. "What can you tell me about this?"

He watched her closely as she studied the picture, looking for any sign of deception – hoping that he'd actually recognize a sign if she gave one. But as far as he could tell her confusion was genuine when she looked up again. "I'm not sure what I'm looking at. That almost looks like Neal."

Peter decided to take a chance and go with her answer. "That is Neal."

Now she looked concerned. "This looks like he's being forced into the van. Did one of his undercover assignments go wrong?"

"As far as we can tell, this has nothing to do with an FBI case."

She leaned forward, chains stretch tight. "Is Neal all right?"

He leaned forward too. "I was hoping you could tell me."

"You think I did something to Neal?" She shook her head. "Why would I hurt him?"

"Well, you did shoot him in your apartment," Peter pointed out.

" _Someone_ shot _at_ him," she corrected. "I wouldn't hurt Neal."

Peter tapped the picture. "Maybe you thought this was protecting him."

"I haven't seen Neal since our encounter at Fort Totten."

"But you have plenty of contacts who could be helping you out."

She was silent for a long moment, and her stare was unnerving, taking all of his self-control not to blink. "You think someone connected to me took Neal."

"Tell me it's not possible," Peter challenged. When she didn't answer, he pushed on. "I don't think you were pursuing the diamond for yourself. Who were you working for?"

She looked down, away. "My lawyer wouldn't like me talking to you about that."

"We have enough evidence against you, and right now, frankly, I don't give a damn about the case." Peter pushed the photo closer to her. "I want to find Neal. I'll consider this interview off the record for anything not directly related to finding him."

Rachel looked up again. "What's in it for me?"

"Nothing. Except knowing that you helped Neal. And I think he still means something to you."

There was a flicker of acknowledgement on her face before her neutral mask returned. "I want to see Neal. That's my price."

"Well, if I can't find him, that won't be possible." Peter took a deep breath, trying to contain his frustration. "Tell me what you know, and when I find Neal, I'll give him the message."

She seemed to consider that for a moment. "You're right. It was a hired job."

"Who hired you?"

She shrugged. "I don't know."

Peter's fist slammed against the table before he could stop it, or even think about it. "I am not in the mood for games."

"And I'm not playing a game, Agent Burke," she shot back, cold steel in her voice. "I don't know who hired me. In my line of work it's often better that way. And as long as my anonymous employers hold up their end of the deal, I don't ask too many questions."

He sucked in a deep breath, held it, released. "What can you tell me? How were you contacted?"

"By phone. Probably the same one that was used for your case when you had Neal grill me about a certain past assignment."

"It's a burner."

"Of course."

"With some type of extra encryption code. We can't track any history."

"A necessary precaution in my line of work."

"Tell me how to crack it."

Now she smiled. "Bring the phone here and I'll do it."

Peter shook his head. "So you can use it to send some kind of message to your mercenary friends? I don't think so."

"I thought you wanted to help Neal."

"I do, but there's a limit to the price to be paid. Now, you never met anyone who hired you for the diamond job?"

She shook her head. "The first message provided the location of a mail drop box and where to find the key. All the details of the assignment, and a substantial down payment, were in an envelope."

"Do you think Hagen was one of the players behind the scene?" _Maybe there was more to the Dutchman's involvement. They'd stopped investigating after his death…_

Rachel's laugh was not the response he expected. "You're suggesting that I worked for Hagen? Oh, Agent Burke, you're so very wrong. He worked for me, the perfect pawn. A history with you and Neal, enough talent of his own that there was a chance he'd figure things out by himself, but not nearly the intelligence or the connections to run this job."

"So in other words, you just used him until he became a risk, and then you killed him."

She leaned back in her chair, smiling. "I don't see how that has anything to do with our topic of finding Neal."

"Fine. What else can you tell me about your employers?"

"They're obviously well connected. I was supplied with very detailed research on the primary players."

"Yes, we saw the files in your apartment."

"Did you like the pictures of Neal as a child? He was so cute, even then." She leaned forward again. "I'll bet you didn't even know some of those details about his childhood."

_Well, that was true…_ "They must have given you a way to contact them if you needed something."

"A phone number. I only used it a few times. It was never answered, just voicemail."

"What was the number?"

She stared at him again for a moment. "You promise that you'll tell Neal I'd like to see him?"

"I'll tell him – but I have to _find him first._ "

"The number was 202-555-6421."

"That's DC…" Peter paused, considering that. "And you swear you never tried to find out who was behind that number?"

"They paid their bills, and provided everything I asked for. Sometimes it's better not to ask too many questions."

"You might have become a liability."

"Exactly."

"Like Curtis Hagen became to you."

She just shrugged, and didn't answer.

Peter slid the pad he'd been using for notes over, and put the pen within reach. "I want the mail box information."

She picked the pen up and started to write, the movement somewhat awkward due to the chains. "This is the address and the box number," she said as she finished. "That's really all I know."

Peter retrieved the pad and pen. "I hope that's the truth." He reached for the photo, but she beat him to it, holding it down.

"Find him, Agent Burke. Find Neal."

_She really did care about him…_ "I will," Peter promised. "It's something I'm good at."

 

* * *

 

"Darling, have you gotten any sleep at all?"

Mozzie shook himself out of the stupor he'd fallen into, looking up and trying to focus on the voice. "June. I just… I mean, there's so much…"

She pushed some papers aside and set a tray down on the table. "You need to eat something. It won't help Neal if you make yourself sick."

Mozzie gestured around at all of the notes, maps, and assorted books scattered on and around Neal's kitchen table, where he'd set up his own search headquarters. It was a location where he could meet with the Suits, if necessary – and Neal did still have a much better wine selection. "I don't know who took him, June. What if he's in big trouble?"

"What if you collapse and wind up back in the hospital? Don't forget, you haven't been back on your feet very long."

"I'm fine," Mozzie insisted, even as his stomach rumbled, and he squeezed his eyes shut as a wave of dizziness passed. He straightened his glasses and reached for his laptop…

Only to be stopped by June's hand closing the lid. "After you eat something."

"June, I appreciate it, but I have too much to do."

"Not too much to take care of yourself."

"June…" Mozzie caught himself, but then the next words came out, almost a whisper. "He's my best friend."

Her hand settled over his. "I know," she said quietly. "I'll make you a deal. You eat that sandwich while I go get a pot of coffee, and then we'll both work on this. All right?"

His stomach grumbled again, and Mozzie admitted defeat. "All right. Thank you, June."

She turned back on her way to the door. "Oh, of course. I love him too, you know."

 

* * *

 

By the time Peter got back to the office, the situation had changed.

There was a reliable tip about a freighter smuggling in stolen Persian antiquities. Jones took a team out to investigate. As much as Peter rued the loss of the manpower in the search for Neal, he knew it was the right decision; ignoring true White Collar crime in favor of the pursuit of an errant consultant was a good way to draw attention to Neal's plight. Not every department would be as convinced that this was a kidnapping case and not a fugitive hunt.

In any event, Diana had kept the search process organized and focused. They had the official video from two of the turnpike service centers, which was very fast service from New Jersey. And the tech team had managed to clear up some of the video that their mysterious source – otherwise known as Sally – had provided the night before. They were certain now that the same van had been identified at the Whitman center, and that an altercation had taken place.

_Neal trying to escape – what a surprise…_

The agents had also finished going through the case files most likely to generate a revenge motive. They had a couple of people to check out, but no leads that seemed highly probable.

Peter passed on the mail box information he'd gotten from Rachel Turner, and Diana headed out with two other agents to check the location. He wasn't really expecting much from a neighborhood postal drop business, but everyone made mistakes, and maybe it was time for luck to swing in their favor.

He had a cryptic voicemail that could only have come from Mozzie. If he had decoded it correctly, it was a request to meet at Neal's. But there was nothing urgent in the message, so that could wait.

Peter had one more avenue to investigate first.

All of the evidence from the Worth case was still on site in the Federal building, pending the handover to the US Attorney for prosecution. So he didn't have to face the Cave, and Agent Patterson, to find what he was looking for.

The cell phone was in the second box he checked. When he powered it on, the battery indicator was almost empty.

No problem, he could stop in the tech department on his way out. They'd be able to give him a charging cable to fit.

On his way, Peter pulled out his own phone. He was going to need some help tracking the phone's call history, and he thought he had a good idea where to start.


	6. Dinner

Phillip Kramer came to dinner.

Neal had spent a productive afternoon. Oh, he was no closer to an actual escape plan, but he had more information than when the day started.

After lunch, he'd cleaned up the kitchen – with only paper plates and plastic flatware that basically involved tossing everything in the trash. _Which was very environmentally un-friendly. He'd need to talk to his captors about that._

And he needed to request actual garbage bags when he made his next order. The empty grocery bags stood in for the time being.

He put away all of the groceries, taking time to organize his supplies. Not that he planned to be there very long, but it was something he had learned during the days when he'd moved frequently – often because a certain FBI agent was getting too close. If you never knew when you might have to leave in a hurry, it was best to know exactly where everything was. While it was unlikely that he'd need a bag of spaghetti as part of an escape, it was better to be prepared.

The research link on the computer yielded a wealth of information. He could request reference works on virtually every artist who had ever painted, sculpted, or turned a pile of laundry into modern art. There were also numerous newspapers and he found he could request that the electronic versions be delivered to his computer each day. And someone had provided the available inventories from several art supply stores.

He put in an order for every type of brush, paint, pencil, and charcoal he could imagine needing for any type of painting forgery they might request. Until he had an escape plan, he might as well enjoy working with the best supplies possible.

The sculpting tools were greyed out so that he couldn't order them. Maybe they weren't expecting him to do any clay or stone work…

More likely, they'd just be carefully controlled so that he didn't have easy access to any sharp tools.

He made one more search of the area, still finding no sign of microphones or cameras – and also still coming up empty on a useful tool or weapon. But he did find a few possibilities if he could manage to find something to use to remove some very tight screws.

_The first step in his escape plan…_

He made another very important discovery – daytime television was most definitely _not_ his thing.

The common room, with its always-on television, had been a refuge for a lot of the men he'd known in prison. But Neal had held a job during most of his stay at Sing Sing, and on days when he might not be working, he could generally be found drawing. Bits of art were useful currency inside the bleak walls of a maximum security facility, and he supplemented his commissary stash quite nicely that way. And once he struck his deal with the FBI, it was an extremely rare weekday when Peter didn't have him working.

Even with all of the satellite channels available in his _temporary_ prison here, he gave up scanning the listings for anything watchable and switched to the e-reader for a couple of hours.

He had turned his attention to making dinner. He had chicken and seasonings simmering – in a pot that was really far too lightweight to do a decent job of cooking – and then he moved to the next problem. More specifically, how to slice potatoes and carrots with a plastic knife. He was still struggling with that, and was on his third knife, when there was a knock on the door.

Which was actually kind of funny, since there was no handle on the inside and he couldn't open the door if he wanted to. Nor could he keep anyone out if they really wanted to come in. So he ignored the knocking, just to see what would happen.

The rapping sounded again, followed by a brief wait, and then the sound of the outer lock being opened.

If Neal was offered the granting of one wish, right at the moment he'd probably ask for a way to wipe that smug smile off of Phillip Kramer's face. Of course, if he could make a successful escape, that would probably do the trick.

Kramer walked in, smiling, looking around. "Well, how was your first day here, Neal?"

"Oh, you know, saw some art, got herded around by goons with guns. Just another ordinary day."

And he absolutely would _not_ ask about the bag the agent was carrying.

Kramer's fake smile didn't waver. "Good to know you're settling in. And you know, the more you cooperate, the more privileges you can earn."

Neal returned a smile that was equally as phony. "I'll look forward to that."

Whether Kramer actually believed that, or if he just decided to let the matter drop, Neal wasn't sure, but the agent changed the subject. "I understand that you're quite the gourmet cook."

Neal shrugged, holding up his bent plastic knife. "I was planning an Irish chicken stew with dumplings," he replied. "But this is hindering me a bit."

The annoying smile was still in place as Kramer motioned to the armed man who had been holding the door open. "I imagined it might," the agent said as the other man laid something on the counter and then took up his position by the door again.

Neal picked the paring knife up – the blade was small, but at least made of metal, and seemed to be sharp. "That should help." He turned his attention back to his vegetables, waiting for Kramer to make the next move.

It didn't take long. "You'll understand if Wes stays until you're done with the knife."

Neal spared a glance in the guard's direction, not surprised to find the man now had one hand inside his jacket, apparently ready to fire if the three inch blade strayed from its task. "Is Wes staying for dinner?"

"Oh, I think that'll just be the two of us," Kramer replied. "We do have so much to talk about." He finally reached into the mysterious bag and pulled a bottle out. "Hopefully this will go with the stew."

Neal gave it a quick glance, recognizing an Italian barbera that he was actually rather fond of. He wouldn't _say_ that, of course. Instead, he shrugged casually. "I wouldn't normally drink a red wine with a chicken dish. But the barbera varietal is versatile. It'll do."

If Kramer was disappointed in his reaction, the other man didn't show it. "I'll just open it, let it breathe a bit," he said, pulling a corkscrew out of his pocket. "And then I'm going to enjoy watching an expert of your caliber in the kitchen."

Neal quickly calculated his odds of taking on both Kramer and the armed goon with a paring knife, and then making it out the hidden facility based on his extremely limited knowledge of the layout. It didn't take long, and the answer was not in his favor. "Suit yourself," he said, tossing his cubed potatoes into the pot.

Whatever Kramer wanted to talk about, it might be something that would give him some clue to add to his escape plan. For that, he'd put up with the other man's company for dinner.

The more he could learn, the sooner he could be gone.

 

* * *

 

"So, we've got nothing."

Peter tossed the file onto the conference room table with a sigh. He put a hand to the small of his back, trying to stretch out a cramp.

"Sorry, boss," Diana said. "The mail shop is a small, neighborhood business. They've never had a theft, and letting the security video overwrite every forty-eight hours is the least expensive plan."

Jones was studying a piece of paper, turning it to various angles. "We can get the contract to ERT," he said slowly. "Maybe they can get something out of the signature, or a fingerprint."

"Something other than a phony address that would be somewhere in the middle of the East River?" Peter regretted his snippy tone as soon as the words left his mouth. "I'm sorry. None of this is your fault. It's just one dead end after another."

"And whoever rented the box paid for a year up front, in cash," Diana said. "Not much reason for close scrutiny on the address."

"They planned well," Peter admitted. "Well, it was a long shot that the shop would have any real information. And I'll bet there won't be any prints except from the shop employees, but let ERT take a look."

Jones nodded as he stood up. "I'll take it down there now. Anything else to follow up on tonight?"

Peter shook his head. "No, go home, get some rest. You've got that smuggling case to work tomorrow." He turned to Diana. "And you, go home to your son."

The two junior agents started to gather up their things. "How long did they give you before you have to be in DC?" Jones asked.

Peter just stared for a moment – so caught up in the search for Neal, he hadn't even told his team about his career change. "I won't be going to DC."

Silence greeted that announcement, and then Jones finally spoke. "They rescinded the job offer because Caffrey's missing?"

"No, I turned it down," Peter replied. "I'd already called Bruce and told him that I wasn't coming before I heard about Neal."

"Peter, turning down a promotion like that…" Diana's voice trailed off, as if she was unsure how far to take that thought.

"You went to DC for a while. How'd you like it?" Peter asked.

"I didn't, really," she admitted. "I mean, it seemed exciting, at first, to be in the halls of power. But it turned into a lot more paperwork than I wanted. You know how quickly I came back to New York when you called."

Peter smiled. "And I was very grateful. But a life of paperwork isn't me either." He turned to Jones. "And before you say it, I'm not letting one CI derail my career. Playing politics with people's lives just isn't me."

Jones seemed to consider that for a moment, and then he nodded. "Fair enough. So you're staying on as ASAC?"

"Well, I'm _interim_ ASAC. There'll be a whole selection process, which I'll be allowed to participate in." Peter hoped the words didn't sound as bitter as they felt in his mouth. "Who knows, at the end of all this, I may be writing parking tickets."

"FBI doesn't do traffic control, boss," Diana said, and the hint of a smile in her voice eased the tension a little.

"Wouldn't surprise me if they create the position just for me," Peter said, his own tone lighter again. "Anyway, my career future won't be decided tonight, so head home."

Jones started for the door. "You gonna take your own advice?"

Peter was pulling his suit coat on. "I've got one more source to meet with."

Diana turned back at the door. "You sure you don't want back-up?"

Peter just smiled. "No, I don't think I'll need back-up for this meeting."

 

* * *

 

Dinner passed mostly in an uncomfortable silence.

Not that Neal said anything, of course, or even gave any outward indication of discomfort. He could play the game of silence too. And it was rather entertaining watching Kramer seemingly get more and more puzzled the longer it went without Neal asking any questions.

He was actually rather surprised that Wes had left his boss alone in the quarters. But Kramer had quickly explained that by showing Neal the little black box that now rested on the table, very close to the agent's left hand. It was a panic button…

And Kramer had made it very clear that Neal would _not_ like the consequences if the button was used. And, of course, Wes took the paring knife and the corkscrew with him.

Since Neal didn't really have enough information yet to implement a decent escape plan, testing the consequences of the little box didn't seem like a good idea at the moment. He certainly wasn't prepared to fight off Wes, and who knew how many other guards, when he didn't really even know which way _out_ was yet.

_And when he did get out, he was getting that combat training, one way or another…_

And so, they ate, each pretending to ignore the other man at the small table.

Finally, though, they had polished off the stew and dumplings, and cleaned their plates of the baked apples and ice cream. Neal cleared away the plates, refilled the glasses with the barbera – which really wasn't bad – and then he leaned back in his chair, waiting for Kramer to start the conversation.

"Your reputation in the kitchen was well deserved," the agent finally said. "That was excellent."

Neal shrugged. "Best I could do with the tools I had."

"Yes, tools do make all the difference." Kramer pulled a folded sheet of paper from his jacket pocket, flattening it on the table. "For instance, I noticed that your supply request included all of the top-end brands."

"I was under the impression you'd expect forgeries that can pass for originals," Neal started. "If that's not the case…"

"Oh, it is," Kramer hurried to say. "You'll get what you asked for."

"Of course, without canvas of the proper age, it'll be harder to pass the copies off as real," Neal pointed out. "If anyone decides to run tests, that is."

"If the quality of the work is good enough, there's no reason to expect tests would be run," Kramer countered, and Neal detected a dark undertone in his voice.

"As long as we all understand the expectations."

"Oh, I think everything will be perfectly clear." Kramer raised his glass. "This is the start of a wonderful relationship, Neal."

Neal casually sipped at his wine. "I don't really see how that'll work. It's hard to imagine a wonderful bond with someone who had me kidnapped."

Kramer waved that off. "Like any other relationship, it's a matter of give and take."

"Sure, I give you the benefit of my skills, and you continue to take my freedom."

"Would you prefer I had taken something else?"

Again, there was a threat just beneath the agent's exterior veneer of calm. "So was this your plan sixteen months ago too? Get me trapped on new charges so you could make me your personal forger and thief?"

"You mean with that commutation hearing?" Kramer smiled. "Oh, no. At the time, I did want you here in DC, but working for the FBI."

"If you've got all the power with this group, why keep your day job?" Neal asked.

"It's my 'day job,' as you put it, that helps maintain my power. As a well-respected senior official in the FBI, I have access to vast amounts of information."

"And information is money."

"You really are a bright boy, Neal."

Neal offered up his phoniest smile at that, but Kramer just sipped his wine and didn't seem to notice. "So, all of the intel Rachel Turner had on me, Peter, the whole team… that was from you?" He thought they'd covered this point last night, but better to ask again, now that his mind was clear.

Kramer didn't seem to mind repeating the information. "From me, or my sources in other agencies."

"The Gewalt Group's tentacles run deep."

"All true power comes from controlling the available resources."

"So what changed in a little over a year? Before, you wanted me indentured to the FBI for years. Now you're holding me in some clandestine facility for some secret purpose."

Kramer shrugged. "Power shifts all the time, and as it does, our needs change."

"And now you need me to steal a diamond." Neal paused for a sip of wine, considering his question. "Why this gem? I mean, I know it's worth a lot of money, but there has to be more."

"Oh, there is. Surely you can appreciate the history of that blue diamond."

"Sure. The whole legend of the Idol of Sita, a twin to the famous Hope Diamond. It would be quite a coup to add it to a collection." Neal leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "But other things would easily be worth as much money, and you only care about power, not history, so I don't understand what the diamond means to you."

"You're quite right," Kramer agreed. "The history of the diamond means very little to me. But to certain people it means everything."

"So you're going to return it to the Indian people it was stolen from?"

Kramer's laugh was hard, brittle. "I do like your sense of humor, Neal. It'll serve you well during your time with us. But, of course, power doesn't come from giving things away – at least, not anything as valuable as the diamond."

"So what is the plan?" Neal asked. "I mean, if you're really keeping me here, it's not like I can stop you."

Kramer seemed to consider that for a moment, and then he leaned forward; across the small table, they were almost touching. "What would you say is the most valuable commodity today, Neal? What makes the world run?"

"Money," Neal suggested, earning an oily smile from the agent… which led him to his next guess. "No, oil. That's what makes the world run."

"You're absolutely right." Kramer smiled, more genuine now, though a touch sad. "It's too bad we'll never be able to trust you. We could use more intelligence like yours."

"Maybe I can convince you of my loyalty," Neal said, and then let it drop; it wasn't time to push any avenue like that, not yet. "All right, you want to control oil. Where does the diamond come in?"

"Think about the Middle east, and who controls much of the oil."

"A lot of the royalty in the area," Neal started. _He might have had 'personal' experience with one or two._ "The sheiks, wealthy families."

" _Very_ wealthy families," Kramer said. "Simply offering them more money isn't enough. But offer them something of value…"

"Something with a unique history," Neal interjected. "That makes it more valuable than money to someone who already has billions."

Kramer nodded. "Exactly! And one family in particular, with some very large oil field holdings, is very interested in that diamond."

"So they get the diamond and bragging rights, you get more oil, and with it, more power." Neal leaned back, lifting his glass in a mock toast. "That's brilliant."

The compliment had the desired effect, and Kramer gave a genuine smile. "Brilliant in its simplicity. At least, it was supposed to be simple, until you complicated things, Neal."

Neal shrugged. "I've been known to do that. Ask Peter."

"Yes, I can imagine what Peter would say. Fortunately, you'll be able to make up for this current complication." Kramer drained the last of his wine and got to his feet, picking up the panic button as he did. "Now, as pleasant as this dinner and conversation have been, I have matters to attend to. You'll have your supplies in the morning so you can begin work."

"You know, being held captive isn't particularly motivating as an artist."

"A resource is only as valuable as what it contributes," Kramer replied, his voice cold. "I suggest you keep that in mind."

There would probably be a better time to push his luck, so Neal just nodded. "I'll try."

"You do that." Kramer touched a small button on the side of the box and a moment later the door opened. "Good night, Neal."

Neal didn't return the parting comment, just watched the door close. He'd gotten some new information, though it wasn't clear yet if any of it helped his situation. That would require some more thought.

_He wondered if Peter or Mozzie had found any clues to lead them to DC…_


	7. Help

Normally, he would have enjoyed the drive. The peaceful river to the east could generally help keep his frustration with the traffic levels down to a moderate fume.

Not tonight.

FDR Drive was hopelessly crowded, and Peter could almost feel his blood pressure rising exponentially the longer he sat stuck at lights or behind slow vehicles. The FDR became Harlem River Drive – a change in name, but not circumstances, as the traffic volume remained high.

Finally, past I-95 and the Hamilton Bridge, traffic began to move a little better. He turned onto 10th Avenue, and the train yard blocked his view of the water for a bit, but then he hit State Highway 9, and soon he was crossing the Harlem River. It might be called a highway, but the roadway was still labeled Broadway here, though it possessed none of the glitter from the theater district. He passed residential and retail areas, drove under the 231st Street Metro station, and kept going north. Finally, the green of Van Cortlandt Park appeared, and with it a wider road, less congested.

_And there was the ever so slight possibility that he was pushing the posted speed limit a little…_

He passed through Yonkers without a second look, and then there was water guiding his way again. But now it was to his west, and it was the mighty Hudson River. He and El loved taking weekend drives up the Hudson Valley…

_Except El was in Washington, DC. He'd gotten the call from her shortly before leaving the office. And this drive was not for pleasure…_

The sign for the Dobbs Ferry train station let him know that he was getting close, and he slowed down. A left on Chestnut Street, a right on Main Street, and halfway down the block he saw his destination, Harper's. Main Street itself offered no parking, but he turned the next corner onto Elm and found a space.

Peter wondered idly if people actually locked their cars in a village like Dobbs Ferry, but it was an ingrained habit, so he clicked the lock button on the remote as he got out. It wasn't far to get back to the restaurant, which advertised fresh, local, farm-to-table food.

Reese Hughes stood to meet him as he walked into the dining room. "Peter."

They shook hands and then sat down at the table. "Thanks for meeting me, Reese."

The older man gave that a short laugh. "With the intrigue that follows you around? How could I resist?"

Peter found he couldn't argue. "Yeah, I guess you could say that."

"Would I be correct if I guessed this was about a certain missing consultant?"

"How much do you know?" Peter asked, not even surprised that the ostensibly retired agent knew that Neal was gone.

"I still have contacts." The older man slid the menu across. "They have a pretty impressive beer selection here, and I'm going to suggest this will go better with a little alcohol."

"It might at that." Peter opened the menu, scanning the selections.

"Have you actually eaten today?"

Peter looked up. "Why would you ask that?" he queried, evading the question. _Because, actually, he hadn't…_

Hughes just rolled his eyes. "I know you, Peter, especially when you're stressing about Caffrey." He leaned over and tapped the menu. "Order something. Then we'll talk."

 

* * *

 

Neal finished cleaning up after his little dinner party and then sat down at the computer. He found a couple of notification messages. One was his first electronic copy of the New York Times. And the other…

_Yes!_

The other was the Santa Fe New Mexican.

He'd wondered if that request would raise any questions. And he was ready with an answer – Santa Fe had a booming arts scene, and just because he couldn't physically _go_ there was no reason not to keep up with what was going on.

The truth, of course, was something different. Early on in his association with Mozzie, they had set up several communication channels should they become separated and unable to use standard things like phones or e-mail. There was a set series of messages that could be posted – innocuous to anyone else reading them, highly relevant to anyone who knew the code. And with no known connection to Santa Fe, there was no reason for any law enforcement personnel – like a certain doggedly determined FBI agent who had picked up Neal's case file all those years ago – to be watching the newspaper.

Just in case someone was monitoring what he looked at, he scanned the news headlines, spent more time reading the reviews of art venues and concerts, and even spent some time on the sports section.

_Wow, look at that score from the Pojoaque Valley game!_

Finally, he clicked over to the classifieds...

Nothing.

He tried not to get too disappointed, or worried. After all, it had only been one day, and even if Mozzie had tried, he might not have been able to get an ad placed that quickly. The next couple of days would be the true test. And, of course, he currently had no way to place an answering ad.

But if he didn't find a message…

Actually, he didn't want to think about that. After all, Mozzie _had_ been with him just before the kidnapping. What if he had turned back, and something happened to him?

No, Neal really didn't want to think about that possibility at all.

 

* * *

 

Peter pushed his empty plate to one side and picked up his second bottle of Ommegang "Scythe & Sickle" Harvest Ale. It was no Heisler Gold, but it wasn't bad. Truthfully, he hadn't recognized any of the names of the bottled beers on the restaurant's list, but this one advertised itself as being brewed in Cooperstown – and really, how could a beer from the hometown of the Baseball Hall of Fame be bad?

He'd also polished off his Harper's Burger plate. Hughes had recommended the white cheddar and fried egg additions, which had seemed an odd combination – until he took his first bite. Now he was already thinking about trying his hand at recreating the burger the next time he grilled.

Oh, and the French fries, with the hint of garlic and parsley – maybe El could come up with a way to make those.

While they were waiting for their food, and in between bites, he'd managed to fill Hughes in on what they knew – and didn't know – concerning Neal's disappearance. The older man had asked a few questions, but hadn't seemed to take too much convincing that the consultant's fate wasn't of his own design.

"So, Caffrey's gone, you're certain it wasn't something he set up himself, but you're not certain who's behind it," Hughes summarized.

"That's about it," Peter agreed. "Our best bet at this point is that it might have something to do with Rachel Turner."

"The ex-MI5 operative." Peter must have looked surprised, because Hughes laughed. "Over a quarter of a century with the Bureau, and military intelligence before that, Peter. When I say I still have contacts, I mean some very well-placed contacts."

"Well, they're right. And Turner apparently has some very well-placed contacts as well, judging by the detail in the research she had on us. But she claims she doesn't know names."

"Makes sense, actually. There are a lot of ways to make clandestine arrangements these days. And most people wouldn't want a trail from a hired mercenary to lead back to them."

Peter fished the cell phone out of his pocket. "Turner claims the contact was made on this phone. It's a burner, and we cracked the initial password, but there's some kind of encryption on it that we haven't been able to break. If we could access some call history…"

"Might give you a lead." Hughes reached for the phone. "I'll talk to my sources at NSA, see if they can pull any history and maybe get a trace."

"Thanks, Reese. I'm running out of other options."

"This will probably take a few days. There's been a lot chatter recently that might point to another terrorist attack on US soil."

"And one missing consultant doesn't trump that," Peter reluctantly concluded. "I understand."

"I'll push it as hard as I can, Peter." Hughes paused, smiled. "You know, the last time I spoke with Caffrey I told him he was a son of a bitch – but the best damn SOB I'd ever seen."

"He can be a challenge," Peter admitted, allowing himself a small smile too. "But he's done a lot of good work for us too."

Hughes waved the phone. "I wouldn't be helping you if I didn't believe that." He pocketed the phone before continuing. "Now, I have a question for you."

"Sure."

"How much do you know about this job offer you got for DC?"

Peter was puzzled by the query, but he didn't say that. "My team has one of the highest closure rates in the Bureau."

"You've had that for years, even pre-Caffrey, though he certainly brought it up significantly."

"But…"

"You know I've always considered you one of the best agents I've ever worked with," Hughes continued. "And I would never argue that you didn't deserve a promotion. But have you asked yourself why now?"

"It did come up rather suddenly after the whole Pratt affair," Peter admitted slowly.

"And that wasn't long after you were suspended and investigated following Caffrey's Cape Verde adventure."

"That wasn't Neal's fault," Peter started, only to have Hughes hold up a hand to stop him.

"I'm not saying it was, Peter. I know there was a lot more going on. And I'm sure I don't know everything, though I might know more about it than you think."

"Something about those contacts in high places?" Peter guessed.

"Something like that, yes," Hughes confirmed. "But the question remains, after all of that, do you know why this promotion came up now?"

Peter shook his head. "No, I don't. I just know that Bruce Hall told me I was on a DC track when I was reinstated, and then he confirmed that the Section Chief job was mine, though it apparently wasn't a unanimous decision."

"Well, decisions in DC rarely are."

"Reese, do you think there's something else behind the job offer?"

"Honestly, I don't _know_ anything for sure. But there were some rumors that someone was looking to split you and Caffrey up."

Peter couldn't hide his surprise. "Why?"

Hughes shook his head. "I don't know. Like I said, rumors. I'll put a few discrete feelers out."

"Maybe it doesn't matter," Peter suggested. "I just turned the job down."

Now Hughes looked surprised. "Was that before or after Caffrey disappeared?"

Peter thought for a moment. "Probably almost the same time. I'd given Neal the news that the request to drop his sentence had been denied. Then I talked to El about not going to Washington, and after that I called Bruce." He leaned back in his chair, staring across the table. "It was only a few minutes later when I got the call about Neal's anklet being cut."

"So the abduction must have been planned before anyone knew you had changed your mind," Hughes concluded.

"It must have. These guys had stolen a vehicle, changed the plates on the van. This wasn't some random grab off the street."

"Doesn't sound likely."

"Reese, what do you know?"

"Like I said, I don't _know_ anything, Peter," Hughes, replied, signaling for the check. "But there are enough funny-shaped pieces in this puzzle to make me suspicious. I'll make some discrete inquiries."

"And you'll let me know if you hear anything."

Hughes nodded. "Of course. But Peter, in the meantime, watch your own six."

Peter couldn't answer for a moment. "You really think someone might be after me?"

"I think it's a possibility that can't be discounted." Hughes paused, shook his head. "You know, I'm guest lecturing in the Criminal Justice classes at Mercy College here. If I told them the whole Burke and Caffrey story… well, they'd boot me over to creative writing, or maybe the loony bin."

Peter could only agree. "You're right about that, and I'm living it."

"Just… be careful."

Peter nodded numbly, trying to process this latest turn. _At least El was safely out of the city…_

 

* * *

 

Neal hadn't paid much attention to the little clock app on the computer, but he found out about a new feature on it early on his second morning.

It functioned as an alarm clock, and could obviously be programmed by someone else.

He was awakened by an incessant beeping that got louder and louder as he finally rolled out of bed and went to investigate. When he activated the computer screen, there was a flashing message telling him that his escort to his work studio would arrive in precisely thirty minutes.

Neal made sure he was ready in exactly thirty-FIVE minutes – enough delay to show that he was still an independent spirit, but not so much as to indicate outright rebellion.

They followed the same path as the day before, and entered the storage room where all of the art resided. But this time they turned to the right almost immediately, passing through another door. The second room was much smaller, but it was set up as an art studio – though unlike any studio he'd ever actually had access to.  
In addition to an easel holding the original Matisse, there was another easel with a blank canvas of the same size. An adjustable stool waited near a drafting table that held a thick pad of sketching paper. Two sets of shelves along the far wall were filled with paints of all types – just with a quick glance he recognized the brands he had requested. And a couple of long tables held other supplies like brushes, palettes, cleaners, and charcoals. To his right was an industrial grade oven, plenty large to hold a good-sized canvas.

Kramer wasn't there… but Amanda Callaway was, smiling that sickly sweet little-girly smile of hers. "Neal, so good to see you looking better than the other night."

"I wouldn't have been looking so rough the other night if you hadn't sent people to kidnap and drug me," he pointed out – quite reasonably, in his opinion.

Her pasted-on smile only faltered for the briefest flicker. "Yes, well, sometimes the ends justify the means. I'm sure you're familiar with the concept."

Neal refused to let himself get pulled into further debate. _What was the old saying – don't engage in a battle of wits with an unarmed opponent…_ "I see you got the supplies I requested," he said, changing the subject. _Whatever his opinion of her intelligence, she had two armed men backing her up._  
  
If she was disappointed in the switch, she covered quickly. "You have expensive tastes."

He shrugged. "If you want quality out, you have to put quality in."

"Then we'll expect some great work from you."

Neal looked around the room, scowling. "This artificial light is not good for copying work."

Her smile widened. "Phillip anticipated that." She tottered to the door in her stiletto heels and opened a panel. A moment later several lights descended from the ceiling. "These are special fixtures that can be adjusted here. The bulbs are designed to mimic natural light."

_Mimicked light for mimicked art…_ "So, no chance for a skylight then?"

Her laugh was phony, not reaching her eyes. "I do love your sense of humor. It'll serve you well in adjusting to life here." The smile disappeared as she continued. "But I do hope your habit of defying authority won't be in evidence here. That wouldn't go over well."

Neal made a point of eying the two armed guards. "No, I can see that," he said, very seriously. _He had no intention of defying any authority – not until he had more information, and at least some semblance of an escape plan._  
  
Callaway's smile returned. "Excellent," she said, clapping her hands together. "Go along, and we'll get along, Neal."

He managed not to grimace at the clichéd saying. "Of course."

"Now, you have full access to the studio, and to the main room next door. But there will be a guard outside that door, so don't try to leave."

"What if I need some coffee, or the bathroom?"

"Someone will be by every two hours to check on you. You'll be escorted to the lounge, or the bathroom, as necessary."

Neal offered up his phoniest smile. "Well, it seems like you've thought of everything." _As if…_  
  
Fortunately, Callaway didn't seem to pick up on the phony part. "Oh, we have," she assured him, turning toward the door. "Now, I suggest you get started. You have a lot of work ahead of you."

"Yes, ma'am," Neal muttered, even as she disappeared into the other room.

Fortunately, the armed guards went with her, and a moment later he heard the outer door slam closed.

He spent a few minutes walking around the studio, checking out the supplies in more detail. And then he played with the light controls for a bit, getting used to the way they moved up and down, and swiveled to various angles – not as good as natural light, but definitely better than the standard fluorescent tubes.

Finally, he stepped out into the bigger room, wondering if he was really alone. He didn't see anyone, and his senses told him no one else was there.  
The door into the corridor did actually have a handle on the inside. He _could_ open it…

But no, it wasn't time to push his luck like that yet.

Neal returned to the studio and adjusted the original Matisse under the best light near the drafting table. Then he picked up a pencil and started to sketch.  
The promised excursions to the lounge and the restrooms would provide him with more valuable intel. Until then, he should at least have _some_ work to show for his morning. Let them believe that he was cooperating…

Even as he was planning for an escape.


	8. Clues

Peter spent an uncomfortable night on the floor of his soon-to-be-ex-living room. The sleeping bag just didn't do the trick on hardwood like it might have back in his college days.

And so he woke up with a stiff back, a sore neck, and a headache to beat all headaches. He tried to convince himself this was all a bad dream – but by the time he forced his eyes open, and saw the lack of furniture, and all of the packing boxes surrounding him, that fiction was gone.

Elizabeth was gone, and with her, most of their remaining furniture. What they hadn't donated to charities the week before anyway.

He finally made his way up the stairs and into the bathroom where he started the water running for a nice, hot shower. A few minutes in the steam and he was starting to feel almost human again.

El had kindly hung up a few of his suits again while she had been doing all of the repacking, so at least he didn't have to dig through boxes for clothing. That joyous task would come later, after all of his things had been moved out of the house. He'd have to give that some more thought in the next day or so, before the second set of movers came to shift everything that was left here into a storage unit.

_And was he really ready to put himself into Mozzie's hands in one of the safe houses…_  
  
Well, that dilemma at least could be resolved by finding a hotel – though part of him might be curious enough to give the safe house a go for a night or two.  
Or maybe, if they hadn't found Neal yet, June would let him use the apartment…

No, he'd rather invoke détente with Mozzie than think about _not_ finding Neal.

The coffee maker had obviously moved to DC, so he gathered up the files he'd brought home and headed out the door. He'd stop at a coffee shop somewhere along the way, get the biggest cup of caffeine they had, and then head to the office.

Maybe there would be a viable lead today…

 

* * *

 

_This just wasn't possible…  
_  
Mozzie stared at the screen of his ultra-secure laptop, reading and re-reading the message from Sally. _Though with his eidetic memory he'd gotten it perfectly the first time._  
  
There was no sign of the van after the turnpike.

Security cameras at the Fenwick service center, the southernmost post, caught a glimpse of what _might_ have been the right van going by on the highway. But the service center actually served northbound traffic, so the cameras weren't exactly aimed for maximum scrutiny of southbound traffic.

_Maybe he'd concoct a new identity as a traffic consultant. It might mean going to New Jersey…  
_  
But all of that could be considered _after_ he found Neal.

And Neal _would_ be found; Mozzie would allow himself to conceive of no other outcome.

Since the words on the screen stubbornly refused to change, Mozzie turned his attention to his next line of inquiry. He'd placed an ad in the New Mexican, as he and Neal had discussed ages ago, and he'd been assured it would be running today. He just hoped Neal would remember the communication method.

He just hoped Neal was in any kind of position to be checking the Santa Fe newspaper.

 

* * *

 

Peter did his best to stay interested in the update Jones was providing on the smuggling case. He _really_ tried. But his mind kept wandering…

He realized Jones had stopped speaking. "Sounds like you've got everything under control."

Jones appeared satisfied with that feedback. "If the investigation plan sounds all right to you, I'll get the surveillance set up."

Peter nodded and got to his feet. "I have every confidence in you, Jones. Just send me your plan before you head out."

"Will do." Jones gathered his files as he continued. "If there's anything I can do to help with the search for Caffrey…"

"If we get any leads, you'll be among the first to know," Peter assured him. "However, I've been reminded that the White Collar unit doesn't close down just to search for an errant consultant."

"Right. Well, maybe today."

Peter followed the younger agent to the door. "Yeah, let's hope."

 

* * *

 

The "lounge" was actually a well-appointed cafeteria and break room. There was a small salad bar, a grill area where you could order things like a burger and fries, and a steam table section where workers dished up a daily variety of food – today featured roast beef, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, carrots, and macaroni and cheese. There were also large coolers with various beverages and, most importantly, a counter with coffee pots and tea.

All in all, it reminded Neal a lot of the hospital cafeteria where he spent way too much time after Mozzie had been shot.

It didn't appear that any payment was expected here though, which was a little different. There was no cashier station that he could see, and as he watched, several people went through the food lines and headed directly to tables. So, food apparently came with jobs around here as a perk.

Considering that no one seemed very happy – not a smile in sight – apparently it was one of the few perks.

As Neal walked around, pretending to consider his lunch options, he noted that some of the people were wearing street clothes. The quality varied, so some may have been closer to the actual power structure of the Gewalt Group than others. And the ones in the fancier clothing did seem to focus on getting coffee, not on the steam table food. It was probably beneath their status.

Other people, notably the cooks and servers, were dressed in scrubs, much like the ones he was wearing. The workers, however, wore various shades of green and purple, while he had been given blue. And, as he looked around, he didn't see anyone else in blue…

_So, something to note. When he had more of a plan, getting a different color of scrubs might help him move around with a little less attention._  
  
He actually would have preferred going back to his quarters and using some of the very expensive groceries he'd ordered. But he could glean more information about his surroundings and the security levels by staying here.

Today, being the first day he'd come to the lounge, he had a guard who stayed very close by. So, Neal played along. He ordered a burger and fries, and dished up a salad while he waited. He put everything on a tray, added a couple of different kinds of soda in bottles from the coolers, and walked into the dining area.

For his first day, it was more important to see the overall picture, so he didn't try to join anyone. Instead, he sat alone at a table next to a wall, where he had a good line of sight around the whole room. And he made sure to eat very slowly, always looking around as much as he could without being _too_ obvious about it.

He didn't have to wait very long to see something interesting. A number of the people coming in pulled out cell phones as they came through the door, and all of them headed toward the center of the large room where there was a bulky sculpture installed. Most of them didn't even stop for food, just sat at a table and started using the phones.

Even more curiously, he watched a couple of people sit a little farther out, hold their phones up at strange angles as if trying to get a signal, and finally move closer to the center – and then start using those phones with no problem.

_So, if they were as far underground as Kramer had indicated, there probably wasn't any cell reception – not without help. And that meant that the sculpture – which he'd initially written off as an ugly faux marble monstrosity of some sort – might actually be concealing some sort of booster that allowed the phones to work in close proximity…_  
  
Neal turned his attention back to his burger, mulling this new information. His armed guard was sticking a little too close today, but if he pretended to cooperate, the security might ease up. And if he could lift a cell phone, and get near enough to the booster, he could send a message.

If anyone saw him smile, he hoped they just thought he was enjoying the burger.

 

* * *

 

Peter found himself oddly hesitant to take the last few steps up to the loft apartment he'd visited so many times. There were a few visits he regretted – the purpose, or the way they turned out. But overall, the memories were good.

But, unless the last couple of days had all been one big nightmare, Neal wouldn't be there.

Mozzie, however, had named this as the meeting place of choice, and Peter had put off the encounter long enough. The other man's messages certainly hadn't indicated that he'd _found_ Neal, but he might have some new information. And Mozzie's brand of information had certainly paid off before.

Peter sucked in a deep breath and climbed the last few steps. He wasn't surprised to find the door standing open, or to see Mozzie hunched over something at the table.

"Ah, Suit, your timing is perfect."

Peter wasn't even going to ask how Mozzie had known it was him. _He didn't even think he'd made noise coming up the stairs._ "Any luck?" he asked.

Mozzie spread some pages out along the side of the table, making sure they lined up, and Peter recognized the outline of the turnpike. "Confirmed sighting here," he said, pointing.

Peter nodded. "The Whitman service center. We've enhanced the video as much as we can. Everyone agrees it was probably Neal, but there isn't enough detail to make identifications on the abductors."

The smug smile on Mozzie's face said a lot as the shorter man passed a printout over. "You need a better level of tech help."

Peter found he had to agree – the photo, while far from clear, was much crisper than anything the FBI lab had come up with. He could make out dark hair, and, with the man next to Neal, there was enough detail to get a pretty good description of his height and body type. "How did you…" he started. "Sally."

Mozzie smiled proudly, started to nod, and then wiped his face blank. "My source prefers to remain anonymous."

"Of course she does. I'm not sure if this is clear enough to run through facial recognition, but we'll try."

Mozzie nodded and then pointed to another section of the map. "There's traffic coverage of the highway that seems to show the same van here," he said, sliding another photo over.

Peter studied the location and the photo. It was from a distance, and not definitive – but based on the timestamp, if he was a betting man, he'd wager it was the same van. "So they were still heading south on the turnpike at that point."

"Near the end of the turnpike," Mozzie agreed. "But Sa… my source has found no sign of the van continuing onto I-95."

"So, they might have turned off before then," Peter mused, trying to picture the area. "That's near Wilmington. They could have turned back north toward Philadelphia."

"Or here," Mozzie said, sliding a larger version of the map into view. "South on the 301 is a possibility. Fewer traffic cameras than the interstate."

Peter traced his finger down the indicated highway. "And it would take them right into DC," he noted. "That might fit."

"You know something?" Mozzie asked.

"Well, I wouldn't say _know_ ," Peter replied. Since it involved Bureau research, he wasn't sure how much he should share – but the lost-yet-hopeful look on Mozzie's face made the decision for him. "We've reviewed all of the cases that Neal has touched for the last several months," he explained. "The only one that really seems promising is Rachel Turner."

Mozzie clutched at his chest, an apparent reflex. "Tell me she hasn't escaped again."

"No, still safely locked up. But, whoever hired her to get Neal involved with the search for the diamond called from a DC number."

"And you didn't tell me?" Mozzie demanded.

"There's nothing so far to indicate that the same people took Neal," Peter replied, feeling somewhat defensive. "It might be a clue that leads nowhere."

Mozzie lifted a finger to make a point. "A clue, no matter how small, is still a clue."

Peter couldn't help it. "Who said that?"

Mozzie just rolled his eyes. "I did. Now, what was the number?"

"It was just a number she called if she needed something," Peter explained, but he pulled his notes out. "The number is 202-555-6421."

"And you've found nothing on it?"

"Not yet. Burner phone. And there's some kind of encryption on her phone so we haven't been able to pull any history to try and see where the original call came from."

Mozzie was practically bouncing. "Encrypted phone? Do you have it? I know a source…"

"And I'm sure your source would love to try and decipher the encryption," Peter said. "But I have a source of my own, and he's working on it."

Now Mozzie looked disappointed. "Oh. Well, if you're sure."

"Moz, if my source comes up dry, you'll be my first call." That seemed to mollify the other man, so Peter continued, pointing at the map. "You are right about one thing, though. The DC number is a clue, no matter how small. And the fact that the van was traveling south, and possibly headed to the same place, makes two clues for DC."

"So what's our next move?" Mozzie asked.

Peter wished he had a good answer. "I'm not sure yet," was all he could really say.

 

* * *

 

He confirmed one of his suspicions that afternoon.

The first time he'd asked to use the restroom, the guard had stood so close over his shoulder at the urinal that Neal had been tempted to make some kind of flippant remark about the guy needing to buy him dinner first.

Fortunately, he wasn't _always_ recklessly impulsive – the guy did have a gun, after all, plus Hulk-type muscles. And after four years of little to no privacy in jail and in Sing Sing, it wasn't like he'd never had an audience before.

But the second time, he had a plan. He started for the urinal, then changed direction to a stall. And if that switch resulted in a brief bump against his guard, the man seemed appeased with a quick, genuine-sounding apology. And Neal was appeased by the feel of the man's cell phone in his hand.

With the stall door closed, it didn't take long to confirm that there was no service.

Another quick bump as he went for the sink, and the man's cell phone was back in his pocket.

And Neal went back to the studio with one more piece of information to mull over as he worked.

 

* * *

 

Encouraged by his team, Peter went home early.

Actually, they all but pushed him out the door. And, since he had to admit he had no other avenues of investigation to pursue right now, he didn't fight too much.

Truthfully, he could probably use the time to get everything organized at home. The second moving van was coming in the morning, and he needed to make sure anything he needed immediately was pulled out so he could move it himself…

To the safe house.

He still had some reservations about using one of Mozzie's habitats, but with so many other things on his mind these days, it did resolve one pressing concern with little to no effort on his part. And, as much as he might have misgivings about the housing arrangements, he had absolutely no doubt about the other man's devotion to Neal. And that devotion, of course, was undoubtedly the only reason Peter had been offered the housing.

Well, that plus El's mystifying friendship with the other man.

So, he would go home, straighten out the packing questions, and then call El. That would be a good way to close out the final night he'd spend in the home they had shared for so long.

 

* * *

 

The ad was there.

Neal found it that night after he was taken back to his quarters.

He was thoroughly searched when they got to the door, and then left alone. He heard the lock click into place on the other side of the portal.

Just in case Kramer was going to decide to drop by for dinner again, he took time to cook first. This time he broiled some tilapia filets, made a quick sauce with lemon, butter, and garlic, and completed the meal with a rice pilaf. But no one came to the door, and he ate dinner alone.

Afterward, he settled in at the computer. He ordered a few more groceries – if he was going to be stuck there for a while, he was going to eat well on their dime. And even if he had no intention of being there for any appreciable amount of time, it was better to let his captors think he felt trapped.

He also requested a couple of special shades of blue paint that the Matisse was going to require. _Maybe once he got out, and called in the storm troopers, he'd be able to find a way to keep some of the top-shelf paints and brushes…_  
  
Still going on the assumption that someone might be monitoring his activity on the computer, he skimmed through the New York Times first, and then went to the New Mexican. With growing impatience he scanned the arts section, and then got to the personals.

_Wanted: Blue marble vanity. New or used, willing to pay top dollar. Contact D. Havisham 212-555-6699. Collect calls accepted._  
  
Blue marble – that had been a comment Mozzie had made about Neal's eyes. And one night, after they had both consumed a lot of wine while celebrating a successful heist, Moz had made the comment that he found Neal's general lack of overt vanity refreshing. Combined, that had become their code phrase.

It was also reassuring that he recognized the phone number in the ad. If anything dire had happened back home, and Mozzie was feeling threatened, the old phones would have been ditched and the ad would have contained a new burner number.

Of course, it would be even better if Neal actually had a way to _call_ that number, collect or not. Or if he had a way to respond to the newspaper. That was something he'd need to work on.

At least he knew now that Mozzie would be watching the ads for a response, and the right words would be as good as sending up a signal flare. And all Neal needed to do was figure out how to light the fuse.


	9. Contacts

Peter schlepped the last of the boxes he was keeping with him out to the SUV. He'd arranged to use one of the Bureau's Explorers, leaving his BMW at the office. And most of the extra cargo space was filled now.

He just hoped they didn't need the Explorer until he could offload everything that night.

He leaned back against the tailgate, watching as the movers carried out some of the remaining items. Once everything settled down, he could think about finding something a little more permanent, and getting everything out of storage.

After he found Neal.

 

* * *

 

His second day of "work" pretty much mirrored the first.

Once again, Neal was awakened by the computer alarm, and given thirty minutes to get ready. And, once again, he made sure to take a few extra minutes, just because.

He still had the same escort, though maybe a few extra inches of personal space today. And the man left him alone at lunch, opting to wait outside in the corridor.

He still didn't try to engage anyone in conversation in the lounge, electing instead to spend another day observing. He didn't see Kramer, but Amanda Callaway made a brief appearance, coming in for coffee while he watched. Fortunately, she didn't appear to notice him.

He wished he could document some of his observations – that would make it easier to catalog everything and come up with a plan. But he hadn't found a way yet to be sure he could keep something like that securely hidden, though he was working on it.

_If only Mozzie…_  
  
Neal refused to let himself go down that line of thought. Mozzie did have a knack for keeping the most random facts in his head, and then being able to pull the salient ideas out as needed. And while Neal knew his own mind wasn't quite as disciplined, he also knew that he had a lot of talent at his beck and call. The trick was simply to figure out the best way to use it.

So he waited, and watched.

 

* * *

 

For Peter, it was another frustrating day with no real leads to follow.

Diana and her team had gotten the last of the surveillance video from the mail store, and they thought they identified the timestamp from when the drop box was most recently accessed. But the person on the video – probably male, but even that was far from certain – had seemingly known where the cameras were and had avoided a clear shot. He even wore a hat.

_Neal would have loved that touch…  
_  
Jones had everything under control on the smuggling case, with a solid plan to move the investigation forward. It made Peter proud that his team was so capable…  
 _Even if a tiny bit of his mind insisted that he should still be more indispensable._  
  
In the end, Peter decided to head out while there was still enough daylight left to find the safe house and get moved in. With Mozzie involved, it just seemed better that way.  
But it turned out that his fears were, at least on the surface, unfounded.

The address led him to Little Odessa, and, from there, to a flat above a Russian tea house. It was small, sparsely furnished, but ultimately… normal.

Especially considering that Mozzie was involved.

Peter found a note on the table welcoming him to New Tuesday – and warning that this was actually _old_ New Tuesday because, of course, it was now Suit-tainted.

The old saying about politics making strange bedfellows came to mind, and Peter had to smile, just a little. Apparently, wayward consultants could have much the same effect.

 

* * *

 

Apparently, conscripted (kidnapped) forgers-slash-thieves didn't get weekends off in this strange subterranean world.

Neal commented on that fact when he was not only taken to "work" on Saturday, but also awakened early on Sunday. Strangely enough, his captors didn't seem to agree that he should have a day off.

Not that the "work" was hard, of course. Truthfully, if he'd been doing this forgery for himself – back before he was reformed, of course – he would have been done by now. Copying was so much easier than creating new art, because someone else had already figured out how the colors and brush strokes should appear on the canvas.

But he was in no particular hurry to finish the Matisse copy. For one thing, he had no idea what the group's plans were for the painting; it might be a forgery, but it was still _his_ work, and he didn't like not having control. And for another, as long as they left him alone in the studio, he didn't have to think about planning a heist for wherever the blue diamond wound up.

So he made enough progress on the painting each day to keep his captors happy, and he used the rest of the time to work on escape plans.

And it turned out that weekends were a good time to gather additional information.

It appeared that most of the people who worked for the Gewalt Group – the ones who hadn't been kidnapped, anyway – _did_ get weekends off. The cafeteria was much less busy when he visited. Since his weekend guard was slightly less obsessive about sticking to Neal like glue, he was able to move a little more freely. While ostensibly mulling his lunch choices, he managed to get in position to see what went on behind the counters – more specifically, behind the _doors_ behind the counters.

There was a door behind the grill area, and he got his first clear look at what was behind it. Unfortunately, all he could really see was what appeared to be an industrial-sized dishwasher and two additional doors leading to refrigerated or freezer units.

The door behind the steam table was more interesting. It opened onto a long hallway. There seemed to be an open area to one side; judging by the aromas, that was probably the kitchen area. But at the end of the hall…

_An elevator._  
  
He had no way of knowing where it led, of course. But all of the food and drink had to come in from the outside somewhere.

Neal selected his food and beverage items and made his way into the seating area, pondering this new information. And with the smaller crowd today, maybe it was time to be more sociable.

He found the perfect target, a middle-aged woman sitting alone near the door. Setting his tray on the table across from her, he offered up his most beguiling smile. "Hi, I'm Neal," he said, as he pulled out the chair and sat down. "Mind if I join you?"

 

* * *

 

Sunday night came, and Peter sat slumped on a chair at the small kitchen table, a beer in one hand, his eyes locked on the wall. Except it was no longer the blank wall he'd found when he moved in. No, he'd taken this kitchen alcove and turned it into his own private case board. He had sticky notes with all of the pieces of information they'd managed to find about the kidnapping…

There was still a lot of blank wall.

But maybe what _wasn't_ there was actually more telling. They'd found nothing – zip, nada, zilch – to indicate that this was related to any of Neal's past acquaintances, or to any FBI case prior to Rachel Turner. And his gut was telling him that was still the direction the investigation should follow.

Unfortunately, his gut – as well as his years in law enforcement – told him she was probably telling the truth about not knowing who hired her. He understood the concept of plausible deniability all too well. Plus, it really did seem that she still cared about Neal. Nothing else explained why she'd let him talk her into surrender, even after he'd made sure she wouldn't be taking the diamond with her.

He sighed and reached out, pulling one of the notes down, staring at it. That DC telephone number stared right back at him, seeming to mock him.

Hopefully, Hughes or Mozzie would have a breakthrough soon…

 

* * *

 

Ruth had been an amiable lunch companion.

Obviously, the regular employees had been warned not to say too much about certain topics. Neal had recognized the signs early on and made sure to keep the conversation in safe territory.

But he had still managed to get some useful information. The fact that she had moved to DC from Ohio eleven months ago wasn't particularly pertinent – but the fact that she had been a curator at the Cleveland Museum of Natural History, specializing in historical manuscripts raised his curiosity.

The fact that the job opportunity in DC came via an anonymous offer, and with a hefty salary increase, was even more fascinating.

Neal let his pencil scratch idly over the sketch pad he'd brought back with him, using the familiar motion to help gather his thoughts. He couldn't actually make notes about the tidbits Ruth had let slip about the goings-on in the underground fortress, but songs weren't the only possibility for a mnemonic device. His hand traced spirals as he considered the multiple levels of security Ruth alluded to. The triangles 'pointed' to the suppliers and visitors who moved in and out of the lair, and the circles represented the various topics she knew were being researched.

Including old Masonic legends.

Best of all, he found out that she took the Metro to work to save on parking – and she exited at the Smithsonian Mall station. That would corroborate Kramer's explanation of where they were.

He still wasn't sure how it all fit together, or why he had become a pivot point in their plans. But he did have the beginnings of an escape plan.

The fact that the weekend guard didn't search him when he returned to the studio after lunch provided one part of his plan on Sunday.

For the next, he was going to need to see Kramer…

 

* * *

 

Peter felt his phone vibrate during the Monday morning briefing, and it took all of his self-control not to reach for it immediately. But he was the one who had instituted – and enforced – the 'no phones during a briefing' rule, so he felt compelled to comply.

Of course, there was no rule against hurrying a briefing along.

As soon as the other agents cleared the room, Peter pulled out his phone. He found a text message from Hughes, with a time and a place for a meeting in three hours.

They would be three very _long_ hours.

 

* * *

 

His Monday morning escort was the guy who stuck to him like glue, though Neal thought he maybe had an extra couple inches of breathing room. The man was generally silent, communicating mostly by gestures or the occasional grunt, but Kramer's name brought him to attention when Neal requested a meeting. He even managed to verbally confirm that the message would be passed on.

Step one of the plan… check.

 

* * *

 

Peter thought he arrived at the Tower Diner plenty early to be the first one there, but when he walked in Hughes was already seated in a two-person booth near the back of the room. The place was crowded with lunchtime customers, and he had to fight the urge to badge his way through.

In a way, he found the choice of meeting place strange – out near Flushing Meadows, it was a fair haul for him from Manhattan, and for Hughes from Dobbs Ferry. On the other hand, that also made it a perfect meeting spot, since it wouldn't be naturally associated with either of them. And the normal crowd would make it difficult for anyone attempting surveillance.

He slid into the other seat in the booth. "Tell me this means you found something," he said, with no preamble.

Hughes didn't seem to mind the lack of greetings. "I did," he said, sliding an envelope across the table.

Peter found himself looking around automatically, searching for anyone who might be paying attention. But everyone seemed quite focused on the menus or their food, so he opened the envelope and slid the contents out. "This is where the calls to Rachel Turner came from?"

"No, where the calls she made were answered," Hughes replied. "The outgoing calls during what seems to be the relevant period went mostly to one number."

"Which is 202-555-6421," Peter murmured, studying the printout. "There are two other numbers, both local."

"Pizza parlors," Hughes confirmed. "I've got a few feelers out, but so far it looks like she was just hungry."

"But this other number leads to DC."

"It does. That's where the phone was being answered."

Peter laid the map between them, tapping his finger right in the center. "The National Mall."

"That's as close as my sources have been able to track the signal."

"Doesn't narrow it down much."

"Not yet," Hughes admitted. "But my source will keep working on it as she can."

"In between terror threats?"

"Something like that."

"No leads on who bought the phone?"

"Peter, you know how hard it can be to track down a burner phone like that."

_Well, yes, he did…_ Peter started at the map, wondering why the nation's Capital suddenly seemed like enemy territory. "Where would I even start to look?"

Hughes seemed to hesitate uncharacteristically before answering. "There are a lot of powerful people in DC, Peter, and a lot of different agendas."

"And one of those agendas seems to have caught Neal up."

"Possibly. And I know better than to tell you not to go after Caffrey."

"Reese, I have to…"

Hughes held up a hand. "I know, Peter. Whether I fully understand or not, the two of you are undeniably intertwined."

Peter offered up a small smile. "It's mostly a good thing."

"It was certainly good for your case closure rate," Hughes granted.

"Yeah, it was." Peter stared at the map again, and then looked up. "Who do you trust in DC?"

This time Hughes didn't hesitate. "Jonah Bancroft. If there's one man who I would bet my life on not being touched by corruption, it's him."

Peter started to gather up the papers. "That's good. I can catch a train…"

Hughes shoved a menu toward him. "Jonah is in Canada, at a law enforcement symposium. He's due back tomorrow night."

"But…"

The older man slid a card across the table. "You have an appointment in his office Wednesday morning."

Peter stared at the card. "It's just, Neal…"

"Caffrey's proven time and again he can take care of himself, Peter."

"He's also proven time and again he can find a way to get himself into trouble, even when he doesn't mean to."

Hughes nodded. "True. But Peter, whoever took him, wanted him alive for a reason. Otherwise they could have killed him right here in New York."

Peter had to admit the truth of that. "Yeah."

"Like you said, where would you even start looking?"  
"No idea."

"Bancroft can help you with the lay of the land, both geographically and politically."

Peter held up the card. "I'll be there Wednesday morning," he said, putting it into his jacket pocket as he started to slide out of the booth.

Once again, Hughes stopped him, this time reaching across to grab his arm. "Eat something. You look like you need it."

_It_ _had_ _been a while since he'd eaten a real meal…_  
  
Peter gave in and picked up the menu.

 

* * *

 

"I understand you want to speak to Phillip Kramer."

Neal slowly looked up from his lunch, letting his fork fall back onto the plate. "That's right."

Amanda Callaway drew herself up to her full height – which wasn't very imposing in Neal's opinion, even from his seated position. "Anything you have to say to Phillip you can say to me."

Neal picked up the fork again and began twirling some spaghetti on it. "No, I really think it would be better if I spoke directly to him."

There was a long silence, and he almost thought she wasn't going to come up with a reply. "Causing trouble is not going to help you any here, Caffrey."

He shrugged, and pointed at his plate. "I'm just eating lunch."

Apparently she had no answer to that, because she simply huffed and walked away. He watched as she set her bag down at a table near the center sculpture and pulled out her phone. He was too far away to hear what she was saying, especially with the general background noise in the lounge, and she was standing at an angle that made reading her lips impossible. _Not that he'd ever been quite as good at that as Mozzie…_  
  
Her body language, though, made it quite clear that she was not happy.

The conversation lasted a few minutes, and Neal idly ate some of his lunch while he watched. The steam table spaghetti wouldn't be mistaken for food from one of his favorite restaurants in Little Italy anytime soon, but it wasn't bad. And it provided cover for his surveillance.

Finally, she ended the call and, using one hand to search for something in her bag, she used the other to put the phone back in her pocket. Without looking, it took a few tries, as she missed the opening…

And then he saw his chance.

Neal didn't know the man's name, but he'd seen him in the lounge a few times. He was approaching Callaway, talking to her, gesturing toward the coffee service area – and causing Callaway to turn her back to where he was sitting.

He got smoothly to his feet, moving quickly but carefully, his own cup in his left hand in case she turned back and saw him. But she was laughing at something the other man said, not paying attention, and a moment later, her phone was in Neal's right hand.

He kept going, around the sculpture, putting its bulk between him and Callaway. He had pulled up the text app before he sat down, holding the phone out of sight under the table. In his many hours of looking for a way out, he'd planned this, exactly what he'd do if he could get a phone, so there was no wasted time now. He keyed in the number, tapped out the message he had planned, sent it, and wiped the number from history.

Getting to his feet again, he carefully looked around the sculpture. Callaway and her friend were at the coffee station, filling their cups. Neal moved toward her table, wiping the face of the phone against his pants; if he'd done this right, she'd never have reason to look for prints, but better safe than sorry.

When he got near the table he "tripped" when his foot bumped another diner's chair. That gave him an excuse to lower his body, and his hand, as he slid the phone under Callaway's chair. It was right where she had been standing, and since she hadn't been watching, it was entirely plausible that the phone had fallen.

At least, he hoped that's what she would think.

Amid profuse apologies for having disturbed the other diner, Neal went back to his table and grabbed his tray, heading for the busing area. He dropped off his dishes, and then walked to the coffee service area. Callaway and her friend were still talking as he filled a mug, added some cream, and raised the cup in a toast to her as he left the cafeteria.

As usual, the guard was waiting out in the hallway and he fell into step behind Neal as they walked back toward the studio. And right now, Neal didn't even mind. He'd taken his first proactive step toward getting out of his prison, and it felt good; in fact, it was even sweeter since it was Callaway's phone.

And if – when – Kramer showed up, he'd take the second step toward what would, hopefully, be freedom.

 

* * *

 

_Hamilton Farms._  
  
Mozzie stared at the screen of his laptop, willing information to appear.

Sally had worked her magic, and found the name on the credit card used to buy the phone that belonged to the 202-555-6421 number that Rachel Turner had provided. Just thinking about her still made his skin crawl, but for Neal, he'd persevere.

Unfortunately, even though Hamilton Farms had an impeccable credit history, the business didn't actually seem to exist. Sally was still trying to break through the veil of corporate secrecy through her computer wizardry, and Mozzie was working his sources. But whoever had set up this account was really, really good.

In fact, if Neal's life hadn't been in the balance, Mozzie would have been suffering from a serious case of professional envy.

His phone buzzed with an incoming text message, and Mozzie reached for it, fully expecting that it might be Sally with some news.

But it was something better.


	10. DC Bound

Peter did something he had very rarely done – at least not since college.

He played hooky.

After leaving the diner, he checked in with Jones and Diana, getting updates on where the open investigations stood. But his senior agents had everything well in hand, and there was no urgent paperwork awaiting his signature as ASAC. So he warned them he might be taking a few days off, promised to be in the office in the morning to let them know for sure, and headed home.

Well, 'home' as in Little Odessa and the flat over the tea house.

He stopped at the bodega down the block and picked up some beer. Most of the selection was Russian or eastern European in nature, but hiding back in the corner he found a six-pack of pure gold – Heisler Gold, actually.

He had just opened the first bottle, and settled in at the table to plan his approach with Bancroft, when the door burst open.

"Suit!"

Peter brushed at the beer that had sloshed on his shirt when the sudden entrance startled him. "Mozzie! Have you heard of knocking?"

"No time." The other man hurried forward, holding out his phone. "It's from Neal."

Peter snatched the phone, looking at the screen.

 _Blue Marble vanity. DC under castle. NC  
_  
It made no sense to him – but he had to remember who he was dealing with. "You're _sure_ this is from Neal?" The "NC" could be initials, or indicate there was "No Charge" for something made of blue marble…

And he didn't want to get his hopes up too high.

Mozzie's sigh was one of exasperation. "Of course I'm sure," he said, stabbing his finger at the screen. "Blue Marble. That's a code name for Neal, and only he and I would know it. Well, and now you."

"All right. Let's assume it is Neal. DC would tie in with that phone number. But we still don't know who…"

"Hamilton Farms."

"What?"

"The credit card used to buy that phone is registered under a company name. Hamilton Farms."

"Never heard that name," Peter said. "Did you get any information on who owns it?"

Mozzie shook his head. "Not yet. This place is like a ghost, except for a credit rating that's obviously fake. But I have my best resource working on it."

"I can call Diana, have her run it through the Bureau's databases." Mozzie just shrugged, clearly not convinced that the FBI could find something his source – Sally – couldn't. And he might be right, but they still had to try. "What about the 'under castle' part of the message?"

Mozzie pulled his laptop out of his messenger bag and put it on the table. "There is a castle in Washington, DC," he said as he powered it up.

"Sure, the Smithsonian," Peter supplied. "Wait, you think Neal's somehow being held under the Smithsonian?"

Mozzie had pulled up a website and was pointing at the screen. "The castle was built by Masons, and they're known for creating secret places."

"But in DC? That's got one of the highest security presences in the country. It's hard to imagine…"

"It's hard to imagine a man being snatched off the street in broad daylight in New York," Mozzie interjected. "But that's what happened to Neal."

Well, Peter couldn't argue with that part. "Is there any actual proof that there's something under the Smithsonian?"

"Officially, only the old tunnel that leads to the Natural History building," Mozzie admitted, sounding a little disappointed. "But unofficially…"

"Just _how_ unofficial?" Peter asked. _He wanted to find Neal too, but if this was one of Mozzie's alien clone conspiracies…_  
  
"The Masons are a secretive group. They don't publish everything for the world to see. But there are clues," Mozzie replied, leaning in to bring up another site.

Peter sighed and leaned in to look. He'd give Mozzie ten minutes to convince him that this wasn't some strange tale without a shred of truth. It couldn't hurt…

 

* * *

 

Neal got back from his afternoon break to find Phillip Kramer in the studio. The agent was by the easel, bent over and closely studying the copy of the Matisse.

"If I'd known I had company, I would have brought you coffee," Neal said. He set his own cup down on the work table and walked over to the painting. "Does it meet your standards?"

Kramer's finger traced circles in the air over the center of the canvas. "These brush strokes are masterful." He looked up, smiling. "You were definitely the man for this job."

Neal tamped down the angry retort that came to mind first; he needed Kramer on his side, for the moment. "I'm glad you approve."

"Oh, I do. And it appears to be almost complete."

"It's getting close."

Kramer stepped back, leaning against a table. "Now, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

Neal put on what he hoped was an appropriate expression of contrition and embarrassment. "Well, it's a little hard to say it."

"Come now, Neal, no secrets between us."

The agent's saccharine sweetness grated on Neal's nerves, but he kept his expression in check. "Right. It's just, working like this, on art… Well, it creates certain… needs."

"Needs?"

"Yeah. You know, a man has certain… _needs._ Physically." He gestured vaguely below his waist. "You get it, right?"

For a long moment, it didn't seem as though Kramer _did_ get it. "Oh," he finally said. "You want some companionship."

Neal gave him a relieved smile. "Yes, exactly."

"Of the female persuasion, I assume."

That got a full Caffrey grin. "Absolutely." _Peter never would have been fooled by that smile…_  
  
"And you expect me to play pimp for you?"

"Come on, this is DC – politicians and hookers go hand in hand. There must be at least a dozen escort services nearby."

Kramer seemed to be considering this. "What is it I get in return?"

Neal shrugged casually. "It's part of my creative process. I assume you expect more of me than one painting."

"Oh, we have many plans for your talents," Kramer assured him. "There's nothing in your file about prostitutes."

Neal rolled his eyes, as theatrically as he thought he could get away with. "First of all, I don't generally have trouble finding companionship when I want it." _Which was totally true, at least pre-anklet – not that he was really a big fan of one night stands most of the time._ "But my options are a little limited, being locked up here. And secondly, there would only be something in my file if I'd been caught."

"Touché." Kramer smiled his oiliest smile, the one that made Neal's skin crawl. "And if I do this, in return I get your services without trouble?"

"You keep me happy, I keep you happy," Neal replied. _Peter would have called him out for a non-answer on that one…_  
  
Kramer didn't seem to notice, instead turning his attention back to the painting. "Can you finish this by tomorrow?"

 _He_ _could_ _have finished it three days ago…_ "Probably," Neal replied, after a slight delay.

"I'll be back tomorrow about this same time," Kramer announced. "If the painting is done, I'll see what I can do."

Neal watched as the agent disappeared out into the main room, and then he heard the outer door slam shut. And that's when he finally allowed himself to smile.

He had no way of knowing if Mozzie actually got the text message he'd sent, or if it would be correctly interpreted. And if this underground lair had really existed undetected for a century and a half, there was no guarantee he'd be found anyway.

 _Though it wouldn't surprise him at all if Mozzie unearthed some obscure conspiracy theory about the Masons and their creation…_  
  
But he had now put into play the next piece in his own escape plan, and that thought gave him comfort as he turned his attention back to the painting.

 

* * *

 

' _So what time do you think you'll get here?'_  
  
Peter had the Amtrak schedule up on the laptop, studying the departure times for the next day. "I'm hoping to catch the Acela Express at noon, which would get into Union Station before three. But I do have to wrap a few things up at the office in the morning, so it might have to be a later train."

" _I have a presentation tomorrow afternoon. I suppose I can see if I can move it…'_  
  
Peter shook his head, then realized the futility of the gesture; they were on the phone, not Skype, so El couldn't see him. "No, don't do that. Like I said, I don't even know when I'll get to town."

' _Well, call me when you know which train you'll be on. If it's later, I might be able to meet you at Union Station.'  
_  
"I'll call," Peter promised. "But I can always take a cab in and meet you at the Gallery, then we can go home together." _The National Gallery was across the Mall from the Smithsonian castle…  
_  
' _It's going to be so good to see you, Peter.'  
_  
"Oh, I know, El. I can't wait." _It had only been a few days, and it felt like years._ "Our first night together in the new house."

' _We'll make it a good one, mister.'_  
  
"I like the sound of that."

' _But still no news on Neal?'_  
  
He hated lying to El – but the more he learned about Neal's disappearance, the more he thought Mozzie's paranoia might be a good defense. Mozzie had assured him the safe house was secure as far as communications went, but he didn't know about El's end. "Nothing definite," he finally said. "I'm hoping Bancroft can help with some additional resources."

' _I hope so too.'_  
  
"I've got some things to finish up, so I'll let you go now," Peter said. "Love you, hon."

' _Love you too, hon. Bye.'_  
  
Peter disconnected the call and then sat there, staring at the phone in his hand. It felt good to talk to El – it would feel even better to hold her in his arms sometime tomorrow.

But for now, he still had a lot of preparations to make before morning.

 

* * *

 

Neal worked extra diligently in the morning, and the Matisse copy was ready for aging before he took his morning break. And it turned out that that was a good thing, because Kramer showed up prior to lunch.

The agent spent a good deal of time studying the painting, while Neal leaned casually against a nearby work table. He knew the brushwork was spot-on. In fact, it was some of his best work – ever.

The 'alteration' he had planned wouldn't come into play until the canvas came out of the oven.

Finally, Kramer straightened up and looked over, smiling. "This is truly excellent work, Neal."

Neal affected a truly contrite, pleased demeanor. "Thank you."

"You'll age it today?"

"That's my plan for after lunch."

Kramer nodded, clapping his hands together. "Excellent. And I'd say you've earned your reward. Any preferences?"

Neal paused, as if considering that question for the first time. "Long hair," he finally said. "But worn up."

"Any particular hair color?"

Neal flashed a grin. "Surprise me."

Kramer nodded and headed toward the door, where one of his bodyguards stood waiting. "I'll be by to collect the painting at the end of the day."

"It'll be ready," Neal replied, keeping the smile on his face – until the door closed.

The painting _would_ be ready, of course – he had to keep up appearances. But another step in his plan was coming together.

 

* * *

 

It took longer to actually leave New York than Peter had intended.

There was one more thing to handle, and then one more, and one more after that. He sent out a couple of general "to whom it may concern" e-mails stating that he would be out of the office for a few days, attending to some urgent personal matters.

Then there was the briefing for the full team, with updates on the open, official, cases. For that group, Peter stuck with the non-specific "personal matters" story to cover his upcoming absence. Most of the agents were either too new to even think of questioning the ASAC, or too experienced to think that he'd provide an answer.

The private briefing with Jones and Diana took longer. They'd been through too much together – followed too many winding paths together – and they deserved the truth, at least as far as he knew it. He told them about the information Hughes had discovered about the location of the burner phone Rachel Turner had called. Diana had already started researching Hamilton Farms – no leads yet, but she'd keep digging. And as they could, around the active White Collar cases they'd both follow any other leads they could find, no matter how small.

Both, of course, offered to go to DC with him – and both, of course, were thanked, but told to stay put, at least for now. Peter knew he was potentially heading out onto ice so thin it was practically a glaze, and the slightest mis-step would send him crashing through. But if he found a solid, tangible lead, they would receive his first calls.

Besides, his senior agents were needed in New York. They'd have to duke it out amongst themselves to see who was going to attend the dreaded budget meetings, but the other immediate ASAC duties he split between them.

And he knew he was leaving White Collar in good hands.

By the time he finally got out of the office and headed to Penn Station, it was too late to make the express train at noon. There was a regional train leaving thirty five minutes later, but with the extra local stops, it would get into DC later than just waiting for the next express at one o'clock.

Given his traveling companion, the shorter ride definitely seemed preferable…

 

* * *

 

The aged Matisse forgery apparently passed Kramer's inspection.

Neal was released for the day earlier than usual after the agent's final visit to the studio. He requested a few minutes to clean things up, and the request was granted.

His guard watched as he started to replace paints on the shelves, and then apparently decided standing in the hall would be more exciting. Finally alone, Neal continued straightening up for a few minutes – he had no idea what his next "assignment" would be, but a clean studio would offer a fresh start.

Assuming he was still there.

Plus, it gave him the excuse to be alone with the finished painting.

On his afternoon break he'd opted for tea today, with extra lemon. No one had seemed to think anything of it.

Now, he squeezed the lemon wedges over a small paint cup, gathering as much of the juice as he could get. Then he flipped the now-cooled canvas over, and picked up a brush…

 

* * *

 

It was a good thing they had taken the express train, because Peter was quite certain he would have physically throttled Mozzie if they had been on the regional run, which took almost an hour longer.

As it was, they'd had nearly three hours from the time they took their reserved business class seats in New York until the train came to a stop in Union Station.  
Three hours of one conspiracy theory after another…

And the train offered Wi-Fi, plus electrical outlets at each seat, so there wasn't even a hope that Mozzie's laptop battery would die, or he'd be unable to pull up the next web page to 'support' his theories.

 _How did Neal put up with this…_  
  
Not that Peter agreed with all of the choices Neal made, of course. And sometimes he thought Neal's view on things – like what types of actions might be warranted under certain, admittedly trying, circumstances – was more than a little wonky. Still, Neal at least tended to operate in the real world.

And Peter really wondered how much rambling even Neal would put up with concerning the impending Masonic Apocalypse.

Fortunately, both men walked off the train under their own power, and Peter didn't really want to contemplate how close he might have come to facing a _second_ murder charge in less than six months. Though he figured he probably would have had a decent case for justifiable homicide this time.

Mozzie disappeared into the Union Station crowd, promising to be in touch. And Peter headed for the taxi stand, sinking into the back seat with relief.

Traffic in the Capital city at this time of day reminded him a lot of Manhattan – most of the roads seemed to more closely resemble parking lots. But the promise of an extra tip seemed to give the driver extra incentive to find side roads that kept them moving toward the National Gallery.

Peter paused on the steps, looking across the National Mall. Washington's castle, the Smithsonian Institution, rose almost directly across the green expanse. Not that he figured it would be as simple as walking up to the Information desk and asking for directions to the secret underground lair being used as a prison for a missing FBI consultant.

It was tempting though, especially being this close…

But it was after five o'clock, and the building would be closed for the day. Maybe tomorrow, after his meeting with Bancroft, he'd take a closer look.

Right now, he desperately wanted – needed – to see his wife. With one last look at the castle, he turned and made his way up the steps. The Gallery was closed too, but El had told him how to find the night bell, and she said she'd be waiting.


	11. Planning

Apparently Kramer was _very_ well satisfied with the Matisse copy.

When Neal was taken back to his room, he found an ice bucket with a bottle of a decent champagne chilling in it. There were even two flutes – plastic – on the counter.

Someone had also provided him with a box of condoms and a bottle of lubricant.

It was funny, in a way, because he fancied himself something of a romantic, and, to date, at least, a serial monogamist. He did _want_ that lasting relationship, though he wasn't fully convinced it would ever truly be within his grasp.

_And yeah, after the whole Rebecca/Rachel thing, maybe his relationship radar needed some tuning._

On the other hand, he'd realized early on that sex could be an extremely valuable tool in a con. He'd quickly learned to separate the physical act from any true feelings. And really, this was just another con – or, more specifically, a play to add to his meager stash of escape tools. The weekend reprieve was over, and he was back to being searched on his way back to the studio from the cafeteria, and when he left the studio at night. But, since his captors thought they so closely controlled what came into his quarters, he was _not_ searched going out in the morning.

If things went the way he hoped tonight, they might soon have reason to regret that.

 

* * *

 

The house was everything he had hoped it would be.

With the rather tight timeframe for the move, and the slight complication of a manhunt for a highly trained assassin to deal with, he hadn't been able to travel to DC to look at the houses their real estate agent suggested. But El – bless her organized heart – had taken advantage of the time she had spent here under Bruce's care to not only work on finding her dream job, but also to visit the leading contender from the listings they had looked at.

She fell in love with the house, and that assured Peter he would love it too. Whatever made El happy made him happy – and it wasn't as though either of them expected that he would make many of the decisions on furnishings or decorating.

Well, except, perhaps, for the finished media room in the basement. He could picture setting that up as his man cave, with a big screen TV to watch all the games…

Assuming he ever actually got to live here, and not just visit, of course.

He recognized the house immediately as El turned onto Davis Street. The brick exterior was set back from the street – they had an actual front yard! The building itself was on a small rise, with a handful of steps leading up from the street.

It wasn't a mansion by any means, but the two story home had seemed to have some good floor space. And judging by El's enthusiastic descriptions on the drive, she found that to be true.

When they finally walked in the door, and she turned on the lights, Peter had to agree.

High ceilings and burnished hardwood floors greeted him. There was a large room in front where El had set up the couch, the television…

And a dog bed.

That was as far as Peter got on his initial inspection of the house, because Satchmo launched himself at his human, demanding attention. And Peter was happy to oblige, even as El disappeared around a corner, announcing she was getting a bottle of wine.

She'd already decreed that he needed to bring her up to speed on what they knew about the search for Neal, so a little time with his dog first was good.

Then they had a lot to talk about.

 

* * *

 

"Have a good night, Aaron!"

He acknowledged the greeting with a wave of his hand and kept walking. There were too many thoughts jumbling in his mind right now to actually reply.

Just a few short years ago, he'd had everything – a good job, promise of advancement at work, a wife he loved with all his heart, and who loved him in return. But all of that was gone.

He'd been at a low period in his life, with few options, when a mysterious offer had come to work security for a powerful organization. The money was decent, and he could convince himself that 'security' was somewhat within his experience. But some of the things he'd been asked to do had precious little to do with anything he considered security work.

And now? Now he was escorting an _escort_ – a hooker – to a rendezvous with someone who was, for all practical purposes, being held prisoner by the Group. He had no idea who the recipient of this little visit was, but judging by the woman's appearance, the guy was in for quite a night.

They turned down the final corridor and then stopped in front of the door. He raised his hand, knocked firmly – even though the occupant couldn't open the door, it seemed only polite since he was delivering company. But he didn't wait for a reply before entering the code to open the door…

He saw his own shocked expression mirrored, just for a moment, on the face of the man inside.

_Caffrey!_

 

* * *

 

Neal heard the knock on the door, and he popped the cork on the bottle of champagne, pouring two glasses. He turned toward the door, which had just opened, holding one out…

_Garrett Fowler?_

He allowed the shock to register on his face for just a moment, then pasted a smile on. "Ah, my company for the evening has arrived."

Fowler had seemingly regained his composure too as he let the woman in. "Someone will be back for you in the morning," he said, his voice not quite as steady as the look on his face. Then he pulled the door closed and locked it.

Neal forced his hand to steady as his date for the evening walked in. "Hi, I'm Neal," he said, dropping his voice to the pitch that had always seemed most effective for times like this.

 

* * *

 

Fowler managed to secure the lock, and then he leaned back against the wall, breathing hard.

_Shit!_

What would the Group be doing holding Caffrey? And why did the con man's fate seem to have become so irretrievably intertwined with his own?

He needed answers, and the operations center was where he might find some.

 

* * *

 

"Shanelle," she answered, returning the smile and accepting the champagne flute.

"Like the perfume?" Neal asked. She actually had a necklace with her name spelled out in what looked like diamonds, but would probably turn out to be cubic zirconium. Still, it was a good opening line.

Her laugh was soft, almost musical. "Sure," she said, dropping her purse on the counter and moving closer.

He toasted her silently, raising his glass. She was… beautiful. Her skin reminded him of cinnamon. _If he was painting her, he'd start with Old Holland's Red Umber, perhaps mixed with a touch of Brown Ochre Light…_

Her navy blue dress was tight, showing off all the right curves, and it sparkled with rhinestones in strategic places. The shoes she wore would never work for, say, a stealthy entrance to a museum after hours, but he had to grant that they gave her legs a nice turn.

Most importantly, her hair – _more Red Umber, less Brown Ochre –_ was carefully pinned up in a stylish bun.

"Well, I'm very pleased to meet you," he said.

He imagined she was going for coy with the smile she returned. "How pleased?"

He played along, setting his glass on the counter and stepping in close, his arm around her waist. " _Very_ pleased."

"Mmmmmm, that's good to hear."

 _Well, he was good at that – telling people what they wanted to hear…_ "You even smell like Chanel," he whispered.

Her answering laugh was predictable. "So tell, me Neal, what would you like to do tonight?"

"Well, what if I told you I'd been kidnapped and needed you to get a message to…"

"Shhhhh." She put a finger to his lips, stopping him. "They told me you might ask me something like that."

"And I suppose they told you to refuse?"

"Honey, these lips will do a lot of things, but passing messages is not one of them."

Neal shrugged, a contrite smile on his face. "Can't blame a guy for trying," he said. _On to the next part of the plan._ "So tell me, what _will_ those lips do?" he asked, reaching up to start unpinning her hair.

She leaned in close, her breath tickling his ear, as she whispered her reply.

And then she showed him.

 

* * *

 

They celebrated their first night together in the Georgetown house by making love. There was an urgency between them, more than indicated by the amount of time they had actually been apart.

Maybe it was an acknowledgement that they didn't know how much time they had _together_ now.

Afterward, El fell asleep, cuddled into Peter's arms. But sleep eluded him for quite a while as his mind raced. What questions did he need to ask Bancroft? What did he really expect the senior official could do for him? What other avenues could he pursue?

_Mozzie had mentioned something about running ground-penetrating radar over the National Mall…_

Maybe it was a sign of a lack of sleep, or the desperation that was starting to creep in, that Peter wasn't willing to dismiss that idea out of hand. _Though how they'd get around the thousands of tourists was another question…_

Finally, in the wee hours of the morning, he slept.

 

* * *

 

Despite having spent a rather vigorous night, Neal woke early. He confirmed that Shanelle was still fast asleep and then slipped out of bed, pulling on the previous day's scrub pants for the moment.

He went to the kitchen first, setting out ingredients for the breakfast he had planned – a fluffy omelet, pancakes, fresh-squeezed orange juice. Then, with his alibi ready, he went for the real target.

Shanelle's purse.

There hadn't been much noise the night before when she put it down on the counter, so he was hopeful there wouldn't be some huge cache of loose coins, or a key ring with a gazillion keys. Still, he moved very slowly as he opened it.

To his relief, she kept a very tidy, and mercifully lightly-filled handbag. Of course, more junk might have offered him some good tool opportunities, but it would have also made it harder to search without making noise. There were only three keys – security door, apartment, and mailbox, he'd guess. She did have some coins, but in a small leather pouch; he left all but four dimes, which he slid into a drawer for the time being.

_People underestimated dimes. Pennies tended to be too thick to work on most screws, but dimes fit just fine._

There was a cell phone, turned off. He checked to make sure his guest wasn't stirring yet and then went into the bathroom, turning on the water just in case it made some loud noise when it powered up. It turned out there was just a soft chime – and, as expected, a message that there was no service. And there was a password lock on the screen, which effectively eliminated keying in a text message and hoping it would send automatically when she did have service.

That had been a longshot anyway.

He went back out to the kitchen and finished his inventory of the purse. There was a nail file, which could have been helpful. This one, however, was metal, with fancy rhinestones – something she would be likely to miss. His plan counted on Shanelle _not_ missing what he secreted away, so he reluctantly left the file. Three of the loose hairpins from the bottom of the bag disappeared into his cache however, as did a few that he had dropped on the counter the night before when he unpinned her hair.

_Dimes weren't the only ordinary objects that people underestimated…_

Nothing else seemed to be of any use to him. There were some makeup items, a couple of pens, a napkin with a phone number written on it, and a few condoms. Other than the makeup, he had access to the other items if he needed them.

_Maybe he should order some makeup on his next supply request, see what Kramer made of that…_

Neal made sure his precious few new tools were safely hidden and then he went in to take a shower. Shanelle joined him shortly after he started, which was cause to find out that there must be a good-sized water heater attached to the pipes.

Afterward, he made breakfast while she watched, and they ate and drank mimosas made with the leftover champagne. Then he told her stories about his world travels as he pinned her hair up; when he showed her the results in the bathroom mirror, she was genuinely pleased, and never knew it involved fewer pins than the night before.

And when the guards came, he kissed her goodbye as she was led to the exit, and he was taken back to the studio.


	12. Ally?

El had arranged monthly parking at a garage near the Rosslyn metro station, and they took the train in together to the Federal Triangle stop. She walked him to the steps leading into the Department of Justice building, and Peter promised to try and be free for lunch as she kissed him goodbye.

He stood on the steps, watching her walk away toward the Mall, and then he turned and walked inside. It was still a little early for his meeting with Bancroft, but maybe Assistant Directors liked to start their days before they were expected, especially if they'd just been out of the country.

_And speaking of expecting…_

Peter definitely hadn't expected to almost literally run into Phillip Kramer. He managed to slip into a side corridor as the other agent stalked purposefully toward the door and went outside.

Their parting after Neal's truncated commutation hearing had been… painful. Kramer had fumed and fussed and thrown all sorts of accusations in Peter's face – things that Peter certainly never would have expected his mentor to say.

_So much for his speech to Neal about knowing that his mentor would always have his back…_

And, of course, Kramer had been responsible for sending Kyle Collins after Neal.

He hadn't really heard much about Kramer or the Art Crimes unit since then. Nor had he sought out contact with his erstwhile friend. But something about the other agent's demeanor now raised his curiosity.

A quick glance at his watch confirmed that he had a little time, and so he followed. Kramer didn't seem to be paying much attention as he walked, his bearing making other people step aside and clear the way for him. Still, it didn't pay to press his luck too much, so he made sure to stay well back, and keep as many people as possible in between them.

His precautions were apparently unnecessary. Kramer's stride never wavered, and he continued down 10th Street, across Constitution, and then angled west to go around the Natural History museum.

Peter stopped at the intersection, looking at his watch, and then at the disappearing form of the Art Crimes head. As much as something seemed off, he didn't have time to continue his surveillance _and_ get to his meeting. And right now, Bancroft seemed his best bet to get help in finding Neal.

 

* * *

 

There was no one waiting in the studio when he got there, and he hadn't been given any clue what his next assignment was, so Neal spent some time wandering around the larger room. He'd only had time for a quick perusal before, and there were pieces he longed to spend some time studying.

He finally found a van Dyck that particularly caught his eye – _Amor and Psyche_. The baroque style was one he'd never done much with, so it would be something to work on until he got his new task.

Or until he made his escape.

 

* * *

 

"Peter! It's good to see you, although the circumstances could be better."

Peter reached out to shake the proffered hand. "You too, sir. And yes, the circumstances are a bit unusual."

Bancroft gave that a wry smile as he sat down behind his desk. "Isn't that par for the course with Caffrey?"

Peter had to nod as he took the chair Bancroft indicated. "There is that," he agreed.

"But from what Reese said, you don't believe he ran."

"No sir," and there was no hesitation in Peter's answer. "Neal did not run. He was taken against his will."

Bancroft nodded. "All right, tell me what you know."

 

* * *

 

"All right, let's see what you've got."

Garrett Fowler got to his feet, opening the folder in front of him as Phillip Kramer strode into the room. "It's here," he said, handing the top sheet over.

Kramer's eyes skimmed over the information. "You're sure, Fowler?"

"It's been confirmed," Garrett replied. This was one of the few times he could actually be _himself_ , without the 'Aaron Burgess' façade.

"Well, this certainly provides the final piece we needed," Kramer said, looking supremely pleased.

"Anything else you need from me?" Garrett asked.

Fowler shook his head. "Not right now," he said, gathering up the folder. "We have the perfect man in place to take it from here."

Fowler watched as Kramer left the room with his prize. _And he was pretty sure he'd gotten a glimpse of that 'perfect man' for the job last night…_

 

* * *

 

"Hamilton Farms." Bancroft scribbled the name down on a notepad, brow furrowed.

"The name means something to you?" Peter asked, trying to keep his hopes from rising unrealistically.

The older agent shook his head slowly. "I'm not sure. Something seems familiar, but I can't quite place it."

"We haven't found anything on it," Peter admitted. "Except a family farm out in Scottsbluff, Nebraska. They also run a petting zoo."

"Not likely to be involved in this, I take it."

Peter shook his head. "No."

Bancroft looked down at his notes, then turned to his computer. He made a few clicks, typed something, and then got to his feet. "Come on. There's one agent who's been here longer than dirt, and he's made a study of all things DC. Let's go have a chat."

 

* * *

 

Neal lifted the pencil from the paper, staring down at the drawing. It wasn't like the sketch was anything other than a way to kill some time, but it was still a little unnerving how much Psyche's face had turned into something – someone – more familiar.

_He wondered again if Peter was looking for him – and if so, was it as a fugitive or as a kidnapping victim…_

He tore the page off, crumpled it up, and tossed it in the trash. It wouldn't do to let Kramer see that moment of weakness.

Before he could start over, he heard the door to the outer room open, and a moment later Kramer and one of his guards came in.

Kramer motioned for the other man to stay back by the door, and then the agent walked closer, leaning in to study the van Dyck. "Keeping busy, Neal?"

"Always good to study the masters."

"Yes, I suppose it would be." Kramer straightened up and then seated himself at the work table, gesturing for Neal to join him. "How was your night?"

"Shanelle was excellent company," Neal replied, dropping into the other chair. "Very… stimulating."

"Intellectually, of course."

Neal grinned. "Of course!"

He had to force himself to keep the grin in place; Kramer's answering smile was so oily he felt sick. "Well, keep up the good work, and she can visit regularly."

"You haven't given me much of a choice," Neal pointed out, doing his best to sound sincere.

Apparently it worked because Kramer nodded and moved on, sliding a folder across the table. "Your next assignment will be a little different."

Neal opened the folder, skimming the first page. "The National Museum of Natural History?"

Kramer nodded and leaned forward, obviously excited. "We have confirmation that the State department has moved the blue diamond to the secured storage area in the building."

"And you still want the diamond."

"As I told you, it means…"

"Power, I remember," Neal said.

"Well, you are a smart man, Neal," Kramer said, the oily smile back in place. "And I know you'll be able to come up with a plan to get the diamond."

"Why don't you just have the diamond delivered to the FBI," Neal suggested. "You can come up with some way to make it related to a case."

"Oh, but the disappearance of the diamond can't tie back to me in any way."

"Find others to do the dirty work, keep your own hands clean."

Kramer's smile disappeared. "You're a very talented thief, Neal. But don't assume that your talent alone will protect you from consequences if you try to cross me."

Neal forced a smile back on his face. "I wouldn't dream of it." _Amazing how lying to_ _some_ _FBI agents came as normal as breathing…_

Kramer didn't look fully convinced, but he leaned over and tapped the file. "All of the basics are in the file. And I've had detailed floor plans and security diagrams delivered to the computer in your quarters, along with a printer, should you need it. There are some hard copy materials as well. Study the blueprints, come up with a plan, and we'll discuss what you need. The guard will see you back to your quarters so you can begin work."

"Breaking into the Smithsonian isn't going to be easy."

"Come now, Neal, you've done it before."

"Not according to any jury."

"Even so, I have all the confidence in the world that you can do this now," Kramer said. He started for the door, then paused, laying a not-so-friendly hand on Neal's shoulder. "You do not want to let me down."

 

* * *

 

The second meeting turned out to be with Walt Furlong. Peter hadn't seen or spoken with the DC agent since the best practices conference in New York almost a year before.

Fortunately, Furlong didn't hold a grudge over Neal swiping his credentials for the identity theft panel. In fact, he had been very impressed by Neal's daring diversion in the parking garage that helped eliminate the threat to Drugov and the development of the next-generation combat vest.

_When there isn't trust, there's always faith…_

Peter had to acknowledge that he'd lost faith in Neal for a while recently; with the benefit of hindsight, he could even acknowledge that he'd been wrong to do so.

_Hopefully, he'd have a chance to tell Neal that – soon._

Furlong did, indeed, turn out to have some information on Hamilton Farms. The name had come up during an extensive investigation into an international money laundering case a few years ago. While actual facts were hard to come by, strong rumor held that Hamilton Farms had been created in the mid-nineteenth century by Alexander Hamilton – not the first Secretary of the Treasury for the fledgling United States, but a distant relative. The entire history, however, was shrouded in mystery. And the case investigation had gone cold.

Leaving the DC agent to pull the old case information, and to run it against the updated databases of today, Peter headed for the National Archives. Walt hadn't personally known of any secret chambers under the Smithsonian, but he was acquainted with an archivist who was considered _the_ expert on the history of the Capital city. And a quick phone call secured Peter a meeting with her.

As he left the Justice building and headed toward 9th Street and the Archives, Peter paused, looking across the Mall. The Castle was clearly visible, rising above the surrounding buildings, and standing out with its red brick. It all looked so benign, especially with hundreds of people crossing the Mall in front. But he couldn't help wondering what secrets it might be hiding.

Hopefully, the archivist, Paula Mundy, might be able to shed some light on that.

 

* * *

 

Mozzie sighed and closed down another search session, letting the automatic erasure program remove all traces of his presence. Sally had hooked him up with an acquaintance in DC, and Giles had all of the makings of a great hacker – paranoia fueled by suspicion of everything related to The Man, an unquenchable thirst to always know more, a laissez-faire attitude about whether the means of attaining that knowledge were actually legal, and an impressive set of computer skills. Another few years of seasoning, and he might come close to Sally's prowess.

Not that Mozzie considered himself biased in any way, of course.

Unfortunately, not even Giles had been able to uncover any useful information about Hamilton Farms. Oh, they'd found some historical mentions in obscure publications. But nothing of any _current_ value.

Giles had left to pick up some beer and pizza; from what Mozzie could tell, the young hacker practically lived on the two substances. His inquiry about the possibility of wine on the premises had been met with a blank stare.

But, Giles' pursuit of food had left Mozzie alone in the house, and the security precautions the youngster had installed were definitely up to par. He pulled out his most secure cell phone and settled on the couch to make a call to Sally. Maybe she'd had some progress.

 

* * *

 

The corridor was empty as Fowler turned the corner and headed toward the suite. Of course, the hallway was covered by several cameras, and he knew that the video feed was closely monitored. With Caffrey's reputation, it didn't pay to take one's eyes off of him for too long, even if there wasn't a handle on the inside of the door.

Besides, the Group considered Caffrey to be a valuable asset. In the unlikely event of a major fire or some other catastrophe, someone would be tasked to get that asset out safely – all the while maintaining control of him, of course. In fact, Fowler had just gotten himself assigned to that duty during his shifts.

For reasons he couldn't quite explain to himself, he felt a sort of responsibility toward the other man. Maybe it was because Caffrey had, quite literally, held Fowler's life in his hands. To this day, he wasn't quite sure if he'd really wanted to die when he encouraged the younger man to pull the trigger in that Russian museum.

Maybe it would have made things easier all around.

But Caffrey hadn't fired another round beyond the warning shot, and had, in fact, surrendered the gun to Burke. They had all walked out of that room alive.

Though Fowler wasn't sure he'd really understood what the concept of 'alive' really meant since Sandra died.

He stopped in front of the door, knocked once to announce his presence, and then unlocked the door.

Caffrey looked up from the desk as he walked in. "Hello, Fowler. I figured I'd see you again."

"Just can't seem to get away from you, Caffrey." He left the door open a couple of inches; it would be embarrassing to have to call someone to come and let him out. And it wasn't like Caffrey would get very far even if he somehow made it out the door.

Caffrey got to his feet, stretching. "How'd you wind up here?" he asked, moving to clear some papers from the chair across from him.

"My options were a little limited after the music box," Fowler replied, watching the other man closely for a reaction. But Caffrey didn't even blink, so he sat down and continued. "The Bureau kind of frowned on some of my activities."

"Like making up Project Mentor for OPR?"

"Yeah, like that. And then, well, after the whole Russian Museum thing, and finding out that Vincent Adler was the man pulling the strings, the walls closed in a little tighter. My aliases were burned, and I was pretty much at the end of my rope."

Caffrey gave that a sad smile. "Adler had a way of doing that to a lot of people."

"So I heard," Fowler said. "Anyway, long story short, about three months later I got an invitation and a ticket to DC, with an offer of a security job."

Caffrey snorted a quick laugh. "Security? So you're in charge of keeping me here?"

"We're kind of compartmentalized. I didn't even know you were here until last night."

"Great." Caffrey headed for the kitchen. "Glass of wine?"

The offer caught Fowler by surprise. "Sure." He waited as Neal poured two glasses. "How _did_ you wind up here?"

Neal handed over one of the glasses and went back to sit at the desk. "Me? I was kidnapped by three men from a public park in Manhattan, drugged, and dragged here. Apparently Kramer and his cronies have quite a list of tasks for me."

Fowler pointed at a set of blueprints on the desk. "Like cracking the Smithsonian?" Caffrey just lifted an eyebrow, so he continued. "One of my assignments was to find out where the diamond wound up."

"The Museum of Natural History."

"Kramer said he had just the man to do the job. And I'd just seen you."

"So two plus two…"

Fowler nodded. "Yeah, I added it up and got you."

"Just like you got me four years ago," Caffrey said softly.

"I guess that did put a lot of things in motion."

"You could say that. If you hadn't gotten Kate…" Caffrey paused, then continued. "Or did Kate get you?"

It was Fowler's turn to pause. "Did you love her?" he finally asked, evading the actual question.

"With all my heart."

"Then does it really matter now?"

Caffrey slowly shook his head. "No," he admitted, the single word barely a whisper. "I suppose it doesn't."

"For the record, the plan was never for you to break out."

"Then what was the plan?"

"You'd spend those four months pining for her, trying to reach out to people you knew to find her, except she was well hidden. And when you did get out, you'd be desperate."

"That's when you'd step in to save the day?"

"Well, in the original plan, you'd never have known I existed. I would have sent someone in with an offer."

"He'd tell me where to find Kate, in exchange for the music box."

"Exactly."

"Except I never had the music box."

"Everyone, including Kate, thought you did."

"I went after it once, but the plan fell through."

Fowler sipped at his wine, buying a few seconds. "The theft from the Amalienborg Palace seemed so smooth and sophisticated, which fit your reputation. The Copenhagen police had no leads at all."

"You'd probably find that it was an inside job set up by someone in the Danish or Italian diplomatic corps, maybe both."

"Maybe so. But at the time, all indicators pointed toward you."

"So Kate hides away, and I get desperate." Caffrey paused, shaking his head. "Not a bad plan, until I colored outside the lines and escaped."

"For the record, no one thought you could do that, certainly not in the short time period you had left."

"I'd had over three years to work out a plan."

Fowler couldn't hide his surprise. "So you'd always planned to escape?"

Caffrey shook his head. "No, I never actually figured on putting the plan into motion. But I had a lot of long nights to think about things."

"Well, your escape certainly screwed up my original strategy."

"You'll have to excuse me if I don't apologize."

"Noted."

"So why did you try to set me up for the pink diamond heist?"

"It should be obvious," Fowler said. "Once Burke got you out on your probation deal, we lost leverage over you."

"And if I was back in prison, your leverage would reappear."

"Exactly. Let you stew for a while, and then we'd offer you a new deal. Except this time I'd be the knight riding in on the white horse, not Burke."

"Operation Mentor."

"Your freedom, and Kate, for the music box."

Caffrey leaned back in his chair, the glass of wine held in both hands. "Everything that's happened over the last four years…" His voice trailed off, as if uncertain how to go on.

There was silence between them, both men covering by sipping at the wine. Fowler finally cleared his throat. "What I told you and Burke, that day in his office, that was the truth. I loved my wife so much…"

"You'd do anything for her."

"I would. I did."

"You killed the man who murdered her."

Fowler nodded, swallowing against the painful lump that had formed in his throat. "I was a good agent before that."

Caffrey nodded. "I know." He reached over, tapping the museum blueprints. "I don't want to do this. Can you help me get out?"

Fowler sucked in a deep breath; it wasn't an unexpected question, but he had no idea how to answer it.

He was saved from needing to reply when the door opened behind him and one of the uniformed security men came in. "Mr. Trebor wants to see you."

Fowler drained his glass and got to his feet. "Good luck, Caffrey," he said, not even really sure what he meant. _Good luck getting out of here, or good luck with the heist…_

But no one kept Trebor, the head of security waiting, so he walked out of the door and started off down the corridor. And there was more than a little temptation to just keep on walking right out of the underground lair.

_You'd do anything for her…_

He couldn't shake the memory of Caffrey saying those words, or how close to his heart those words hit. And that made him think about what Caffrey had done for the love of Kate Moreau.

Maybe he and Caffrey weren't so very different after all.

And maybe he'd stick around the Group just a little longer…


	13. Research

Peter stepped out of the Archives building, grateful to get some fresh air. It was probably his imagination – the rooms were spotless and climate controlled – but it seemed like he could smell and feel the musty history.

Maybe he just needed answers faster than he was finding them.

Paula Mundy did, indeed, have a wealth of information about the history of the Capital city. Unfortunately, her personal knowledge didn't include anything about hidden chambers underneath the Smithsonian.

But…

She didn't discount the possibility out of hand. There were legends, rumors, and a whole roomful of old texts about the 19th century that had just recently been unearthed – almost literally. Someone had apparently moved a large cache of books and documents out of the city when it appeared that Confederate troops might actually gain control of Washington, and possibly burn the city. The collection had been taken to a farm in the Maryland countryside, secreted in an airtight root cellar that was, in turn, hidden inside a barn. Unfortunately, the enterprising soul who had thought to hide the documents was killed on the way back to the city – spooked horse, not even war-related – and he died without leaving any notes on where he had left the cache. It had only recently been discovered by a descendent of the original farm owner when the barn was being renovated into an antique mall.

According to Paula, it was the treasure trove of the century.

Having seen the U-boat treasure, Peter might have argued – but these documents stood a better chance of giving him needed answers than any gold or artwork.

Paula was arranging access to the room for Peter and a guest after lunch. And, as much as he questioned his sanity, Peter knew who that 'guest' should be. If there was anyone who could speed read through the documents and help ferret out any helpful information, it was Mozzie.

He sighed, and reached for his phone.

 

* * *

 

Neal didn't have much time to ponder the meaning of Fowler's visit. It wasn't long before his door opened again with an 'invitation' to lunch.

Since the message was delivered by two men with guns, he kind of figured it was more of a command performance.

He was taken to a room he hadn't seen before. Rich wood paneling covered the walls, which also featured a number of large, finely crafted bookcases. Several over-stuffed chairs were set around the room, and a large oak desk, with intricate carvings on the front panel, stood at the far end. All in all, it looked like a proper library for a country estate.

The only thing marring the overall impression was the obviously electric fireplace.

_Right, underground, no chimney for a real fireplace…_

And there was one more thing not quite right about the room – Phillip Kramer was sitting behind the desk.

"Have a seat, Neal."

Neal sat down in the indicated chair, curious to know what Kramer's play was now. The agent had gotten to his feet, and was making a show of pouring brandy into two snifters, so Neal took advantage of the distraction to look around.

On first glance, he didn't see anything useful. There certainly wasn't a sign pointing to a secret passage back to the real world or anything as helpful as that. But then he spotted something on the end table nearest the desk, and he leaned forward for a better look.

"The Mosconi Codex" Kramer confirmed, handing over a glass. "But then, I imagine you recognize the work."

"I might," Neal agreed. "So you're the mysterious owner of the Codex?"

"Well, the Group owns it." Kramer seated himself behind the desk again. "Though, of course, when it was loaned to the Gershon Museum, Chapter 13 wasn't a screed about ancient alien invasions."

Neal just shrugged – he wasn't going to debate Mozzie's theories. "The original provided for good reading."

"I'm sure. A shame that the pages were destroyed."

"Accidents happen."

Kramer raised an eyebrow at that. "I suppose they do. Fortunately, we had copies made of the entire book before sending it to New York." He paused, one of his oily smiles appearing. "Perhaps we'll make that one of your projects, to recreate the missing pages."

Neal hoped his smile looked just as phony. "I can't wait."

Kramer just nodded and sipped his brandy. "Well, first things first. What's your impression of the Smithsonian job?"

"I just started looking at it."

"Yes, yes, I know. But surely you have some ideas."

"A job like this is going to take some careful planning," Neal warned.

Kramer's eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't be stalling now, would you, Neal?"

Neal set his glass down and leaned forward. "There's a reason that I was only convicted on one bond forgery charge, Kramer. I'm careful."

For a long moment the agent didn't reply. But then he finally nodded and reached over to touch a button by the phone. "Let's have lunch. I've taken the liberty of having some food from Ristorante Tosca brought in. Then perhaps I can help with your planning."

 _Yeah, that was about as likely to happen as the ceiling suddenly opening so that he could fly out…_ But Neal kept a smile on his face, and kept his mouth shut.

 

* * *

 

"Wow."

Despite his private vow to keep his excitement contained, Mozzie couldn't help himself. The sheer sight of all of the old books and documents was enough to break his restraint.

_How many conspiracy theories might be proved with all of the heretofore unstudied information…_

The Suit had already settled in at a table, sorting a stack of records. And Mozzie had to admit, after his initial suspicion about Neal's disappearance, the man had come around, and seemed to be sincerely doing everything he could to solve the puzzle.

If anything suggested otherwise, Mozzie certainly wouldn't hesitate to remind him.

He set his messenger bag down, and hung his jacket over the back of a chair. Finding Neal was, of course, the first priority. But if he just happened to come across other useful information… well, there were definitely advantages to having an eidetic memory.

Just as he sat down, one of his phones buzzed with an incoming message. The Suit looked up, scowling at the intrusion, but Mozzie ignored him. The tone was from his secret third phone, the one that only two people knew the number for. Either Neal had broken free from his captors, which was a definite possibility given the younger man's history…

Or Sally had found something.

 

* * *

 

The door closed behind him, and Neal heard the lock being engaged. But he stood still for a long moment, thinking.

The lunch with Kramer had been unsettling, to say the least. It was too bad, because he probably would have enjoyed the Ristorante Tosca cuisine without the company.

_He'd have to check out the restaurant when he got free…_

Kramer had become more and more insistent that the Smithsonian job had to be completed soon, probably within the next week. He hadn't been willing to say _why_ the timing was so important. And really, in his position as a captive, Neal supposed it didn't matter.

What mattered was what he was going to do next.

He started a pot of coffee brewing and then went to shower and change clothes. Even though all the scrubs were the same color and style, it still seemed better – he could practically feel Kramer-slime on him.

The coffee was ready by the time he was done so he poured a cup and went to sit down at the desk. But he didn't go right back to studying the building plans.

It had really seemed like he and Fowler were connecting that morning, and that the ex-agent was sympathetic to his plight. Unfortunately, they'd been interrupted before Fowler could answer whether he was willing to aid in an escape plan.

Neal sipped at his coffee – _sad that he was getting used to the Styrofoam cups_ – and contemplated the earlier encounter. If Fowler _was_ willing to help, that would certainly improve the odds of getting out. But that raised the question of how to get another meeting with him. Fowler had initiated the first encounter, would he try again? And if not, what would be a plausible reason for Neal to use to request a meeting?

Beyond that, of course, was the question of whether he should even _try_ to meet with Fowler again. That moment of hesitation, when Fowler had seemed ready to help, was brief. If the Gewalt Group was holding something over the other man – say, they had come into possession of the blackmail tape Adler had used – Fowler could just as easily rat him out as help.

Which left Neal back with the option of trying to implement his own escape. He had the beginnings of a plan, just nothing that he felt comfortable with – yet. But Kramer's tight timetable for the diamond theft wasn't leaving him many choices. If he didn't get out soon, he was going to be forced to go through with the museum heist.

So, try to set up a meeting with Fowler and hope for some help, or rely on his own resources…

There were a lot of things to consider. And, in the meantime, Kramer was going to expect updates on the museum plan. With a resigned sigh, he powered on the computer and pulled up the first set of blueprints.

 

* * *

 

"Suit!"

Peter sighed and looked up from the 1842 tax records in front of him. "You haven't even looked at anything yet," he started.

"No, look!"

Peter looked at the screen of the phone Mozzie shoved in front of him, reading the message…

And then reading it again.

And he couldn't quite suppress the shudder he felt at the sight of the name in the text. "Terrance Pratt?"

Mozzie nodded, either not picking up on Peter's unease or, more likely not caring in his excited state. "Sal… my _source_ finally cracked the walls around that Hamilton Farms credit card. It traces back through a series of shell corporations, and one of them is a company Pratt used to launder some of his hush money."

Peter was reaching for his own phone. "What's the shell company's name? I'll get Diana on it."

"PKCH, Inc."

"So, P for Pratt. Who are the others?"

Mozzie shook his head. "Still shrouded in a cloud of bureaucratic web."

"All right, give me Sally's number. She and Diana…"

"Lady Suit? My source…"

"Damnit, Mozzie!" Peter slammed his free hand on the table. "I know your source is _still_ Sally, and I'm grateful she's helping. All I want is to find Neal. Isn't that what you want too?"

It looked like it took some effort, but Mozzie finally nodded. "Of course."

"Then let's get two brilliant women working together on this," Peter urged.

"Sally isn't fond of working with the authorities."

"She'll make an exception for you," Peter insisted. "And don't forget, it was Diana who found the antidote when you were poisoned."

"I know." Mozzie sighed and turned his attention back to his phone. "I'll ask Sally for a safe number."

 

* * *

 

"Amanda, what's the news?"

Amanda Callaway sunk down into a chair across the desk from Phillip Kramer, reaching for the mug of coffee he slid across to her. "The State Department has reached out to the Indian government about the diamond."

"Not unexpected," Kramer replied, leaning back in his chair. "Though unfortunate. Have they determined that it's to be repatriated?"

"No one's saying exactly that – yet. The rumor is that State is going to request some concessions on Pakistan first."

"What's the timeframe for a decision?"

Callaway made a dismissive gesture. "You know diplomats. They haven't even mentioned that the item in question is the Eye of Sita yet. This still has to move up through several levels."

"But the process has started."

She nodded. "It has. How long will it take Caffrey to come up with a plan for the museum?"

"Oh, I'm sure he probably already has a pretty good idea of what it will take. But he'll stall, and won't admit it."

"Then we need to encourage him."

Kramer nodded and smiled. "We do indeed, Amanda, we do indeed. Perhaps another visit with Shanelle is in order. And then I'll have a little chat with Neal in the morning."

 

* * *

 

Shanelle's appearance at his door was a surprise, to say the least.

But Neal considered himself nothing if not adaptable, and over the years he'd gotten pretty good at covering his surprise at the twists and turns of his life. He welcomed her in, and kept her plied with wine as he busied himself in the kitchen fixing dinner. Fortunately, he had some excellent quality salmon filets on hand, courtesy of the delivery service that afternoon. A potato gratin, and some asparagus with butter, lemon, and garlic, and dinner service was complete.

They talked about everything, and yet nothing important. But it passed some time, and didn't require a lot of concentration.

Which was fine, because a good portion of his mind was occupied with wondering why he was getting this unrequested visit, and what it meant for his timetable.

 

* * *

 

Paula Mundy had pulled some strings – some _more_ strings – and gotten them an extension on the research room. But the security team at the Archives wouldn't agree to having visitors staying overnight, no matter how many times Peter flashed his badge.

Even with Mozzie speed-reading his way through the documents, the afternoon hadn't left them enough time to get through all of the newly discovered material. And Paula had brought in some of the regular collection which might have some bearing on their research.

They'd be meeting again in the morning to continue looking. Between the Archives, and the work Sally and Diana were doing, Peter was cautiously optimistic that they might find a clue.

In the meantime, Mozzie disappeared as soon as they exited the building, and Peter knew better than to ask where the other man was going. As for himself, he was going to go home to his wife and his dog…

And later, after El went to bed, maybe he'd spend some time on his laptop. The internet was awash with conspiracy theories concerning Washington, DC, but maybe some of them were based in truth.

 

* * *

 

By the time Shanelle was escorted out in the morning, Neal had made a decision about his next step. He was just asking the guard to request a meeting with Kramer when the agent showed up at his door.

"Well, it was fortuitous I was coming to see you anyway, Neal."

"Apparently." Neal stepped back, letting the other man in.

"I just wanted to see what update on the planning you might have."

"I haven't gotten much farther," Neal replied. "I had company last night."

Kramer's oily grin was back. "Pleasant company, I hope."

"Extremely. But it would have seemed rude to ignore her in favor of research."

"Of course. Well, perhaps you'll have some progress to report today."

"That's actually why I wanted to see you. I'd like to work in the studio instead of here."

Kramer's eyes narrowed, apparently suspicious. "The computer is here."

Neal was ready for that objection. "I've done all of the research I can there, and printed out what I need. The studio has a lot more flat work space, and that's what's important right now."

Kramer was silent for a moment, his eyes focused on the piles of documents on the desk and spreading out onto the chairs, and then he finally nodded. "All right. I'll send someone with a cart to help move everything."

"Thank you, sir."

"But I'll expect you to have at least the basics of a plan, and the list of materials you'll need, by tomorrow. Time is of the essence."

"I'll do my best, sir."

The answer must have been satisfactory because Kramer nodded and headed for the door. Neal watched him leave and then started to gather up some of the materials.

_What kind of pressure was driving this tight timeline for the theft…_

Whatever it was, it also meant that his own timeline – escape or steal – was being escalated too.

 

* * *

 

Peter was back outside the Archives building before eight o'clock the next morning. And, in a sure sign of how his world had changed over the last few years, he wasn't even surprised to see Mozzie appear from behind the bushes at the corner of the structure.

It didn't take more than a few words to share that neither of them had received any news of progress overnight.

And so, when Paula showed up at the top of the hour to let them in, they headed back to 'their' archive room, ready to dig into the old records again.


	14. Possibilities

It was Diana who found the next lead.

With Jones handling the day-to-day White Collar cases, she was free to spend most of her time looking for any trace of Neal, which included any clues to the identity of the owners of the mysterious Hamilton Farms, or the newly discovered PKCH, Inc.

Going on the logical assumption that "P" was for Pratt, she and Sally had split up duties. The hacker was currently trying to track down all of Pratt's hidden financial dealings. And, even though Diana could swear she could still feel the bite marks on her hand from their first meeting, she had to admit that Sally's talents were probably better suited to that task.

Diana went back to Pratt's visit - before his last ill-fated trip to New York. She reviewed all of the briefcase cam footage again, looking for anything out of place, something they might have missed the first time around.

And she finally found it on footage from the first night of his trip. On the itinerary Neal had seen, there was a listing for "Dinner w/Lisa." Since 'Lisa' turned out to be someone who couldn't be identified on facial recognition, and the initial conversation seemed to be of a personal nature, the FBI had filed it away as not case related – they weren't out to catch the Senator in an affair. A copy had, of course, been turned over to the US Attorney's office after Pratt's death, but Diana had never heard that anything useful had been found.

But now that dinner was of interest again, if only because, somehow, the specter of a dead Senator might be related to the disappearance of a pain-in-the-ass – but deeply missed – FBI consultant.

And so Diana loaded up on coffee and settled in to watch the entire video.

'Lisa' talked a lot about the Gershon Museum – a quick search identified her as Lisa Wolhoit, one of the curators of the manuscript collections.

But the really interesting part of the tape came nearly an hour in, when Pratt and Wolhoit were joined by a third party.

_Phillip Kramer…_

 

* * *

 

Neal made sure to spread all of the research material out over the tables to keep up his cover. The truth, of course, was that he could have given Kramer a list of equipment at any time, and done the job tonight if the required materials were delivered.

But he didn't _want_ to pull the heist.

So he made notes here and there, including the beginnings of a list. But mostly he took advantage of the bi-hourly excursions he was allowed.

He hadn't really found a way to make the restroom breaks relevant to his plans – except, of course, as a means of handling necessary bodily functions.

The trips to the cafeteria, however, were really research gathering opportunities. In addition to getting coffee or lunch, he paid extra special attention to the traffic patterns, the way the food service employees reacted to various situations, and the distances between landmarks.

Fowler was too much of an unknown at this point, so he pretty much decided he was on his own. He had a plan and, though his tools might not be ideal, they would be sufficient for the job.

The question now was, when to go. The next day was Friday, which would offer the advantage of having more people around to provide cover. On the other hand, based on his observations the previous weekend, Saturday security would be more lax.

Well, he had until tomorrow morning to decide.

 

* * *

 

Diana's report came in just before Peter was going to take a break for lunch.

As usual, she was clear and concise in her wording, cutting right to the chase. And as much as thinking about Pratt still made him shudder, he pushed past it, reading the transcript of the dinner conversation.

There was nothing directly actionable – that would have been too easy. But Peter definitely agreed with Diana's assessment that many exchanges felt like the parties were speaking in some kind of code – the package, the plan, the asset.

And he was definitely interested in the other party to the later conversation.

_Phillip Kramer – the 'K' in PKCH?_

Hopefully, Diana or Sally would find more about that possibility.

 

* * *

 

"Yes, that's very helpful, Erin… No, I'm not sure what it means either, not yet… I'll let you know. Thank you."

Reese Hughes disconnected the call, and then sat staring at the phone for a long moment.

His NSA contact had come through with some additional information about the phone calls made by Rachel Turner to the DC number. Unfortunately, the information didn't make a lot of sense.

As far as the most sensitive tracking equipment the US government employed could tell, the phone was answered somewhere on the south side of the National Mall. Nothing so terribly strange about that.

No, what was unusual is that the calls didn't ping any of the regular cellular towers in the area.

Well, Burke – and Caffrey – specialized in the unusual. With that thought in mind, Hughes started to compose a text.

 

* * *

 

"Ah ha!"

Peter looked up at Mozzie's exclamation, watching as the other man hurried over, an old portfolio in his hands. "What did you find?" he asked, readying himself for another conspiracy theory.

Mozzie plopped the book down on the table. "Documentation that a group of Masons constructed an underground chamber on the south side of what is now the National Mall."

For a long moment, Peter just stared at the other man, and then he finally forced his eyes down onto the book.

_The True History of the Secret Constructions of the Council of Royal & Select Masters as recorded by Thrice Illustrious Master Archibald Calla. Hirracker._

Spending too much time trying to decipher that long title seemed counter-productive. And given the general secrecy surround the Masonic Order, the whole thing might be one big smokescreen. But they hadn't found anything else, and Peter could feel his desperation almost willing this to actually be _something._

"That actually might tie into something Hughes just sent me," he said slowly, holding out his phone.

A secret chamber, a phone taking calls without touching a tower – as unlikely as it seemed, Neal really might be down a real-life rabbit hole.

 

* * *

 

Amanda Callaway stopped in Thursday afternoon.

She didn't stay long – fortunately. _And if – when – he saw Peter again, Neal was_ _so_ _going to remind the agent of his absolutely correct assessment that her initial niceness toward him had hidden an ulterior motive._

Today, she was delivering the message that Kramer expected his list of necessary equipment for the Smithsonian job first thing Friday morning. They anticipated being able to find most of the items in the long-term FBI storage facility. From his experience over the last few years, Neal knew that's where they kept items that weren't actually evidence related to open cases, but were not able to be auctioned off along with other seized goods.

Tools specific to committing crimes probably composed a large percentage of what was there.

Neal promised to have the list ready, and that seemed to satisfy Callaway. And once she left, he did concentrate on what the job would need. If he _did_ have to go through with the heist, he wanted the odds of getting out undetected to be as strongly in his favor as possible.

Somehow, he didn't see much possibility that the Gewalt Group would bail him out if he was caught.

 

* * *

 

By the end of the day, they hadn't found any more details about the alleged secret chamber – but they hadn't found anything to _disprove_ it either.

Mozzie left the Archives building, muttering about possible sources for ground penetrating radar.

Peter watched him go, wishing he had a good argument _against_ what still seemed too far-fetched to possibly be true. But, as much as he might wish it otherwise, the oddest explanation now also seemed to be the most likely.

_He half expected the Twilight Zone music to start playing at any moment…_

Bancroft had meetings most of the day on Friday, but he had managed to squeeze Peter onto the calendar late in the afternoon. Until then, Peter planned to keep an eye on what Mozzie was doing – which would also mean being there just in case this lunacy actually turned into something real.

Maybe he'd also have a chance to finally get to the Smithsonian castle and look around for himself.

First, though, he was going to have dinner with El. It would be good to have at least one normal thing to hold onto right now.

 

* * *

 

Kramer didn't bat an eye at the list of equipment Neal presented him with on Friday morning.

In fact, he confidently predicted that all of it should be available to Neal by the next day.

_So, there was no reason the job couldn't be done within the next few days…_

It was definitely time to go.

 

* * *

 

Peter was quite certain he didn't want to know how Mozzie had managed to obtain the very large radar unit he showed up with on Friday morning.

After getting an early text message to meet in front of the castle, Peter had shown up as instructed. Shortly thereafter, the normal din of government workers heading to their jobs, and tourists getting a jump on a day of sightseeing, was interrupted by a low growling noise. And Peter had stared in disbelief as Mozzie appeared, driving something that most closely resembled a riding lawnmower, or possibly a miniature Zamboni.

Instead of cleaning ice, however, this machine sat on top of some high tech gear that would penetrate the ground and show images of what lay below. The control panel had a small steering mechanism and a large display screen.

Peter wouldn't have been at all surprised if someone had jumped out and told him he was on Candid Camera or some other show intended to catch people off guard. If someone had asked him to read a book with all of these twists and turns, he would have tossed it aside as being too implausible to waste his time on.

_His life had become the stuff of bad novels…_

Still, the effort – and the subsequent therapy he was sure would be coming – would be worth it if it turned out that they found Neal.

 

* * *

 

Neal made a good show of working on Friday morning. If anyone had come into the studio, they would have found him bent over the drafting table, ostensibly working on the plan for the heist. And, indeed, the sketches did appear to be the museum.

Fortunately, he could sketch bare bones floor plans without putting much thought into what his hand was doing. And that left his mind free for other things, like walking through every move he planned to make when lunchtime rolled around.

Time was counting down.

 

* * *

 

"Mrs. Suit!"

Peter looked up at the sound of Mozzie's voice, and watched as he climbed off of the radar machine and hurried to greet Elizabeth with a hug.

Fortunately, the hug she reserved for her husband was even tighter, and longer.

"Hi, hon," he whispered, holding her close. She was his one link to sanity in all of this craziness.

Elizabeth kissed him and then picked up the bag she'd set on the grass. "I thought maybe you boys could use some lunch."

Mozzie eagerly reached for the bag. "And what delicacies did you bring?"

"There's a great deli not far from the Gallery," she replied. "I brought sandwiches and salads – including some dairy free choices."

"Excellent!"

As Mozzie began unpacking lunch, Elizabeth turned to her husband. "Anything?"

"Mozzie thought he might have seen something a little bit ago," Peter explained. "But it's hard to tell if it's really something new, or just part of the subway system."

"So how do you find out?"

"We'll take the images from the radar, and overlay them with a map of the known subway system. Walt Furlong is digging the plans up for me."

Elizabeth was staring at the ground under her feet. "You really think it's possible Neal is being held down there somewhere?"

"My definition of what's possible has been greatly expanded where Neal's involved," Peter replied.

Elizabeth smiled and then took his hand, leading him toward the bench where Mozzie was setting out the food. "Well, come have lunch, and let's talk about possibilities."


	15. Timing

Everything went according to plan.

Neal made his request to go to lunch shortly before noon. If patterns held, he knew that the cafeteria would be busy at that time, but not crowded, which would be perfect.

As usual now, his guard left him at the door, remaining in the corridor while Neal went inside. Once there, he spent some time wandering among the stations, to all outward appearances simply considering his choices for lunch.

When there was a break at the soda machine, he quietly slipped over there. He had three of Shanelle's hair pins clipped over the waistband of his pants, and one of them easily found its way into one of the spouts, forcing it open. Neal moved on quickly, and was well away from the station by the time the dark brown carbonated liquid began spilling onto the floor and the first people raised the alarm.

As expected, the ruckus drew everyone's attention, and the employees behind the steam table rushed out to see what happened. That left Neal the opportunity he'd been looking for, and he headed behind the counter.

He'd previously noticed a few employees entering a room just inside the long hallway – the one that led to an elevator. What was most interesting about this room, however, was that the people who had gone in had spilled something on themselves, and when they came out, they had fresh scrubs on.

The lock on the door turned out to be so simple he didn't even need the other hair pins to pick it. The table knife he'd picked up out front did the trick and he was quickly inside. As expected, there were racks of clean scrubs and a few private cubicles for changing.

It only took a couple of minutes to exchange his blue scrubs for a set of the purple that most of the workers wore. And he even found a food service cap to help him further blend in.

By the time he opened the door again, the commotion out front seemed to have died down a little. But no one had come back behind the counter yet, so that was good. He slipped out into the hall, picking up some of the empty containers that were sitting there as cover should someone see him in the hall.

He kept walking down the hall, trying to ignore the urge to run. His best bet was to stay calm, and blend in, but that was in definite contrast to the simple urge to escape as quickly as possible. But he made it to the end of the hall without any alarm being raised. And what he had guessed to be an elevator was, in fact, exactly that.

He pressed the 'up' button, nearly holding his breath as he waited. And when the indicator light finally promised that the car had arrived, he tensed, ready for fight or flight, should either be necessary. But when the doors opened, the car was empty.

Neal could feel his heart pounding as he set the containers down and stepped inside. His senses felt heightened, as they always did during a job.

The control panel wasn't a lot of help as far as identifying where he was. The top two floors were labeled simply P and M.

If they really were underground – and he had no reason to _not_ believe that – then it stood to reason that the way out would be on the top floor. But, given the Gewalt Group's secrecy, that could also mean that security would be heightened near the exit. He finally pushed the P button; go almost to the top, scope things out.

The car began to rise, and Neal stayed very close to the doors. He didn't want to be caught in the back if people were waiting when the car stopped.

It seemed to be moving very slowly, though he wasn't quite sure if that was reality, or just a perception driven by his need to escape.

Finally, there was a soft ding, and the indicator panel showed P as the location. He took a deep breath, tensing as the doors opened…

There was no one there.

Stepping into the hall, Neal took in the surroundings. There was a corridor, dimly lit, that extended off in one direction. It was hard to see, but it seemed that the hallway turned a corner at the very edge of what was visible.

In the other direction, the corridor ended quickly. But before it did, there was a door, with an illuminated sign indicating stairs.

It was a tough decision. The P might mean the Parking level – maybe this is where he'd been brought in the first time. But it could also mean there was a potbellied stove down at the end of the dark corridor. Or that it was where Prisoners who tried to escape were sent…

He decided on the stairs.

The door opened easily, and he stepped inside. Again, the lighting was dim, but more than adequate to see where he was going. And although he stood still for a long moment, studying the layout, he didn't see anything to indicate any sensors or other traps.

The canvas shoes made his footsteps all but silent as he climbed. There was a landing halfway up as the stairway turned back the other way, and again he stopped, looking, listening. But there was still no sign of anyone or anything that would keep him from freedom, so he continued up.

When he reached the top of the stairs he paused, one hand on the door handle. Ear pressed to the door, he listened for any sound of activity. But either no one was there, or the door was too thick to allow sound to penetrate.

Well, there was only one way to find out.

Neal twisted the handle, and the door opened easily. At first he kept the gap at just a couple of inches, ready to head back down the stairs and try the long, dark corridor on the P level if there was any sign of trouble. But, even though there were some voices that seemed to be coming from some distance away, he couldn't see any movement.

There was a rumbling sound then, and he ducked back. _Was that a Metro train…_

The sound stopped, he waited, and then it started up again, but moving away.

_M for Metro level?_

It was quiet again and he finally opened the door all the way and stepped out. The elevator was just to his left, and the voices he'd heard seemed to be coming from farther down that way. But to his right…

To his right was the beautiful sight of a door with an Exit sign over it.

Everything went according to plan… until he opened the door.

 

* * *

 

Peter walked Elizabeth back to the National Gallery after their picnic lunch. It felt good to actually do something normal, like holding his wife's hand and walking across the grassy Mall.

He left her just inside the door with a kiss, and a promise to keep her up to date on any developments.

He had started back across the Mall to rejoin Mozzie when he stopped in his tracks. There, just in front of him, Phillip Kramer was striding across the lawn, obviously a man on a mission. A few steps behind, Amanda Callaway was doing her best to run in her high heels, trying to keep up.

_If Kramer really was the K in PKCH…_

Peter slipped in directly behind them, shadowing their steps. There was enough foot traffic on the Mall to provide natural cover, but the two agents didn't seem to be paying attention to anything except reaching their destination, whatever that might turn out to be.

Could he really reconcile his old mentor and friend with someone who could potentially be behind Neal's kidnapping? And, even more than that, possibly linked to the hiring of Rachel Turner, which, in turn, led to the murders of David Siegel and Curtis Hagen. It seemed impossible, and yet frighteningly possible at the same time. And the whole debacle with Kramer during Neal's commutation hearing proved that Peter no longer knew the man he had once revered.

And Callaway? It had seemed obvious that she was a patsy of Pratt's when she had been bumped up past so many senior and more capable agents to take over the New York office. But if she was involved in this, there must be more than met the eye.

He zigged around a group of students, all in their school uniforms, and as he passed he heard the teacher talking about the architecture of the Smithsonian castle. And that reminded him of the book they'd found in the Archives, the _Secret Constructions_ of the Masons, by…

_Thrice Illustrious Master Archibald Calla. Hirracker… Calla… Callaway?_

Maybe there was some deep-seated family connection for her to this mystery group. It made more sense than that she had somehow earned a high position herself.

It appeared that they were heading toward the Smithsonian Metro stop, except that didn't make sense. The Federal Triangle station was much closer to the Justice Building. So why make this march all the way across the Mall just to get on the subway…

 

* * *

 

Garrett Fowler had been in the operations center when the alarm sounded. Per protocol, his immediate responsibility was to secure ops. No direct threat ever appeared, so there was really nothing to do, and a few minutes later the all-clear sounded.

Once the lock-down was lifted, he set about trying to gather information on what had happened. This hadn't been a scheduled drill, so there must have been an actual breach. And it didn't take very long to get an answer.

_Caffrey…_

 

* * *

 

There must have been a train that just arrived, because Peter found himself fighting against an entire horde of tourists coming _up_ the stairs as he tried to do _down_. He tried to keep Kramer's head in view, because Callaway's short frame was totally gobbled up by the crowd.

He was glad El had recommended buying a SmarTrip card because he was able to quickly access it now and not have to get in line to pay for a fare. Even so, the turnstile slowed him down a little. Still, he was pretty sure that was still his erstwhile friend's graying hair in the distance.

The crowd thinned a bit as he got toward the bottom, and he got a glimpse of Kramer and Callaway turning a corner. It seemed to take them _away_ from the track, but he couldn't spend too much time thinking about that. This wasn't like tracking a chipmunk through dog food dust, where the little footprints showed a clear trail.

He reached the bottom of the steps, scanning the loading area quickly. But, although it was starting to gather riders waiting for the next train, he didn't see the two people he was searching for.

Peter turned the other way, heading past a snack cart and a couple of benches. There didn't really seem to be anything this way except the train tunnel. But just before he would have needed to either turn back, or jump down onto the tracks to continue the way he was going, he found an opening. It was a narrow, dimly-lit corridor that was labeled Employees Only.

_Maybe he'd worked with Neal too long…_

Ignoring the sign, he turned into the hall.

 

* * *

 

"You look like hell, kid."

When Caffrey looked up, Fowler found that his original assessment was probably too kind. There was blood trickling down the younger man's face from a cut over his left eye – an eye that was bruised and all but swollen shut. Caffrey was also sitting hunched over, apparently protecting sore ribs.

"That's a shock," Caffrey managed to say, though it seemed to be a lot of effort. "Because I feel just great."

"Yeah, I'm not buying it. And here I thought you were such a good con man." Fowler turned to the other security guard in the room. "I've got it from here."

He waited until the man left, and the door was closed again, before stepping closer to Caffrey. "Just couldn't wait, could you. I was working on a plan to help you."

Caffrey's unbloodied brow lifted in a question. "I didn't know. You didn't answer."

"Yeah, we got interrupted."

Caffrey still looked puzzled. "Why?"

"Why would I help you?" Caffrey nodded, and Fowler considered his answer for a moment. "I guess it's like you said – I would have done anything for my wife. Just like you would have done anything for Kate. Like it or not, maybe we're not so very different."

"Does that scare you?"

Fowler shook his head. "No, just makes me wish I'd figured it out earlier."

"Do you think you can still help me get out of here?"

Fowler bought a little time by going to the small sink in the corner of the conference room and wetting some paper towels. "Maybe, but your little escape attempt is going to tighten security for a while."

Caffrey accepted the towels and started to wipe gingerly at the blood. "I almost made it."

"Bad timing, from what I heard."

Caffrey nodded. "The worst." He paused in his clean-up efforts. "Can you get word to Peter?"

"Burke?"

"I'm sure he's looking for me."

"No promises, but I'll see what I can do." Fowler dropped into a chair across the table. "The museum job. Can you do it?"

"Assuming all of the information they gave me is accurate… yes. But without casing it myself, it's hard to say for sure."

"I'll look into it…"

"Fowler, they want the job done soon."

"Yeah, I picked up on that too. I don't know why the rush." Fowler sighed and got to his feet. "Come on, I need to take you back to your room. Then, I'll see what I can find out."

 

* * *

 

The corridor ended at a locked door marked "Trash and Maintenance. Authorized Personnel Only." It was a heavy duty door, with what appeared to be a secure electronic lock with a keypad. At first that seemed a little odd…

But then Peter thought about how easily he had wandered down this hallway, so maybe it wasn't so unusual after all. On any given day, thousands of people could be down here, and it wouldn't do to have people wandering in and making off with cleaning supplies or digging through the trash looking for the next Watergate or something.

Unfortunately, that didn't explain where Kramer and Callaway had gone.

The rumbling from the tunnel indicated that a train was approaching the station and Peter made his way back toward the platform. Staying mostly behind a concrete pillar, he watched as the train pulled in and the doors opened. People came out, and others moved into the cars. But as hard as he looked, he didn't see either of his targets.

He was just about ready to head to the other side of the platform – maybe there was another mystery corridor there. But just then he became aware of movement behind him and he turned to see who was coming out of the maintenance corridor…

 

* * *

 

Fowler waited while the guard unlocked the door, and then, completing his escort duty, he stepped inside with his charge.

"I'll just be a minute," he told the guard. "The boss won't like it if he can't do his job."

The guard nodded. "Just knock when you're done."

Fowler waited until the door closed, and then turned to Caffrey. "Look, get yourself cleaned up, and don't try anything else. Let me check a few things out."

Caffrey nodded, though it seemed a bit reluctant. "I don't think I'm up to another try today anyway. But if I don't get out of here soon, I'm going to have to do the museum job."

"I know, and I can't make any guarantees. You'd best go over your plan again, see if there are any holes. Because if you get caught…"

"Yeah, I wouldn't expect the Gewalt Group to stick up for me," Caffrey finished.

"Exactly."

"The plan is solid – as far as it goes. But without a chance to case the building myself, there are unknowns I can't account for."

"After your little jaunt today, I don't know if I can sell that."

"I don't suppose calling in a SWAT strike is an option?"

Fowler shook his head. "They have explosives at strategic points down here. SWAT tries to get in, the whole place goes boom."

"Probably not the best plan then."

"No, probably not. But I might have an idea or two. I'll get back to you as soon as I can."

 

* * *

 

"Bruce?"

Bruce Hall looked around, seemingly nervous, as he and Peter stood facing each other, and for a moment neither man said anything else.

Peter tried to look past the senior agent, wondering if he'd missed something in the dim lighting. "What are you doing here?"

Hall moved – to block his view? "I could ask the same of you, Peter."

"Yeah, I suppose so. Look, I know it sounds crazy, but I'm looking for Neal Caffrey, and it really seems like he might be being held hostage here somewhere."

"It's always about Caffrey with you, isn't it, Peter."

"Bruce, he was…"

"You really should have stayed in New York, Peter."

There was something about Hall's tone of voice that raised Peter's guard a notch. "What do you mean? Neal is my responsibility. I'm just following the leads I have."

"Your responsibility?" Hall laughed. "Well, that's the problem, isn't it. You know, after the way you botched the whole Pratt situation, a lot of people thought you should be demoted."

That was something Peter hadn't heard spoken out loud before. "Bruce, I don't…"

"The feeling here, however, was that losing Callaway in New York was enough, we couldn't shake things up even further without ruining the plan."

The hair on the back of Peter's neck was standing up, and he found himself wishing he had his gun. For a non-official scan of the Mall grounds, he'd thought it better to _not_ go armed, but now…

"So we made you ASAC," Hall continued. "Officially, it looked like a reward for your years of service. Unofficially, it put a level between you and Caffrey, which should have made it easier to get to him. Of course, we weren't counting on Siegel stumbling across something he shouldn't have seen."

"Siegel…" Peter was seriously uneasy now. He chanced a glance over his shoulder, at the growing crowd waiting for the next train. If he could just make it to the platform…

Hall must have guessed his thoughts, because the next thing he knew, the other agent had blocked his path – with a gun.

"We needed Caffrey, you see," Hall continued, gesturing for Peter to walk down the dark corridor.

"What about the promotion to DC?" Peter asked, starting to walk. Hall was staying far enough away, and was obviously being careful, so there was no chance to go for the gun.

"An obvious reward for your record," Hall replied. "And a reason that no one – not even Caffrey – would question for taking you away. But without you to protect him…"

"You'd have a clear shot at getting Neal to do whatever you wanted," Peter guessed.

"Exactly. Of course, we have that anyway, but it would have been easier if you had just cooperated and taken the promotion."

"So there really was a Section Chief job?"

Hall nodded. "Oh yes, the job was real. We just would have buried you in so much paperwork that you would have hated it. The most likely odds had you resigning within a year."

"But that would look like my choice, not like I was being forced out," Peter concluded.

"You always were a bright one, Peter."

"In that case, maybe I can help you…"

"Nice try. But everyone knows that Peter Burke can't be bought."

They'd reached the locked door and Peter turned to partially face his captor. "Apparently you can."

Hall laughed at that. "Oh, there are things worth being bought for." He gestured toward the keypad. "The code is 2-8-7-5-3."

"You're _giving_ me the code?"

Hall just shrugged. "Why not? It only works from this side of the door – and you're never going to see it again."


	16. Reunited

Neal pulled on the clean scrub top, wincing as the action pulled at his sore ribs. Still, the hot shower had helped, and he figured the two Tylenol he'd just swallowed would probably kick in soon.

At least, he hoped they would; besides his sore ribs, his head was killing him.

Fortunately, it didn't feel like a concussion, or at least not a serious one. He may – or may not, depending on who was asking – have experienced a real head injury once or twice in the past. It felt more like a tension headache, which was probably understandable, under the circumstances.

And, of course, his bruised and swollen eye hurt.

He wandered into the kitchen and poured a glass of wine. The Tylenol instructions undoubtedly said not to mix with alcohol, but the drug company probably hadn't considered this particular scenario. In any event, he'd take his chances.

He also pulled a bag of frozen peas out of the freezer. It would do as a make-shift icepack.

Thus armed, Neal settled into one of the recliners in the living room. He leaned back, his left hand holding the bag over his eye, his right hand holding the wine.

He briefly considered Fowler's warning to go over his museum plan again, and be clear on all the details. But the fact was, he knew the details of the plan as well as he could. As with the Matisse, he could have been ready to go earlier, if he had actually wanted to do it. The only risk was that he hadn't been able to case the outside of the building himself. The building plans were good, but they didn't have the detail that would really make him comfortable.

Was there any way he could get a scouting trip approved? His odds might have been better before the escape attempt. But if he could make a compelling case, maybe there was still a chance.

He took a sip of wine, and set the glass down on the small side table. Then he closed his eyes, though he had no intention of sleeping.

It was just the best way to visualize a con.

 

* * *

 

Fowler was back in the operations center, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible as he studied the chamber's blueprints. He wanted to help Caffrey get out – hell, he wanted to get out himself. But the Group had covered its bases well.

He looked up from the plans just in time to see activity on the Metro level entry camera…

_Was that Peter Burke being led in at gunpoint?_

 

* * *

 

Peter was taken down in an elevator and marched through corridor after corridor. Hall must have signaled for help somehow, because armed guards swarmed around them soon after they'd entered the lair. After that, any hope of overpowering his captor(s) and getting free was dashed.

All he could hope now was that they'd take him to Neal. Maybe between the two of them, escape would be a possibility.

Finally, they stopped in front of yet another non-descript door, and one of the guards punched in a code on the keypad. The lock clicked free, the door was opened, and he was shoved in – hard.

So hard, in fact, that he stumbled, reaching out to catch himself against the wall. And when he straightened up…

"Peter!"

Peter figured his own look of wide-eyed surprise probably pretty much matched Neal's. Before he could reply though, the door slammed shut behind him, and he twisted to look at it briefly before turning back to look at Neal.

And when he did take a closer look, he didn't like what he saw. Neal was barefoot, and dressed in dark blue scrubs. But it wasn't the non-suit attire that really caught his attention. No, that would be the bandage near the hairline over Neal's left eye, and the huge bruise that had that same eye nearly swollen shut.

"Been making new friends?" he asked, gesturing toward the injuries.

"Something like that. And you just happened to walk into this super top secret lair?"

"Yeah, just out for a stroll."

Neal had gotten to his feet and picked up his empty glass. "I guess we have a lot to talk about," he said. "Wine?"

"No beer?"

"Sorry, I wasn't expecting company of the hops and grain sort. I do have Scotch."

A good stiff drink was tempting, but Peter shook his head. "Wine's good, for now."

"I'll break out the fine glassware," Neal said, moving into the small kitchen and holding up a plastic cup.

Peter looked around the room as Neal poured. "You've been here the whole time?"

"Well, since that first night."

Neal handed over a glass and went back in to sit down, and Peter took the other chair. "And the eye?"

"I may have tried to leave earlier today."

"Someone apparently didn't want to see you go."

Neal looked wistful. "I almost made it," he replied. "It was when I opened the last door."

"Yeah," Peter agreed. "It was a door that got me too."

"Bruce Hall."

They stared at each other, realizing they had both spoken the name at the same time.

"I opened the last door," Neal said. "I think it would have come out on the Metro level, near a station. There was a dark corridor, but I could hear a train coming. Hall was there, just coming in, with two other men and a woman. They kept me from getting out, and then reinforcements arrived."

"Sounds like where I was, just on the other side," Peter said. "If it was, you were so close."

"A couple of minutes either way…"

"Same here. I was down there, at the end of the platform, when he came out."

"Timing is everything," Neal said softly, leaning back in his chair. "Well, I'm sorry we didn't run into each other at that door, but I guess there is one good thing about you being here."

Peter couldn't actually think of anything good about being held captive, but he asked anyway. "What would that be?"

"Well, I might be able to convince you that I really didn't run."

"I didn't…" Peter started, but then he caught himself.

Neal's look was sad, resigned. "You did believe that."

"I did," Peter confessed. "At first. Neal, I'd just told you that you weren't going to be free after all."

"So naturally the first thing I'd do would be the dumbest thing I could do."

"You don't always react well to bad news, Neal."

"I've had my moments," Neal admitted. "But I'm not totally self-destructive. The worst that was happening in the immediate future was that I'd have to go to the office the next day. And I still had my lawyer working for me."

"I know. And in my own defense, I didn't believe the escape theory for long."

"No? What convinced you?"

"Mozzie."

"Really?"

"He said you wouldn't leave without him, and I could tell he meant it."

Neal nodded slowly. "He's right. I can't imagine leaving without him."

Peter got up, grabbed the open bottle of wine, and brought it over, refilling their plastic cups. "So, how _did_ you wind up here?"

 

* * *

 

Caffrey's plan was good.

Of course, he personally had much more practice in picking up the pieces _after_ a break-in than in planning one himself, but Fowler could appreciate the professional eye the man had applied to this task. In several places, though, he had made notes about a lack of information, particularly on the outside of the natural history museum. Maybe…

"Fowler! What are you doing here?"

Fortunately, he managed not to jump too much at the sound of the voice behind him, and he was totally under control when he turned to face Kramer. "I was going to take the plans back to Caffrey so he can finalize them. You still want him to do the museum job, right?"

"He _must_ retrieve that diamond."

"That's what I figured. And I know you have him confined to his quarters."

"Good thinking, Garrett. Caffrey was brought here for a purpose."

Fowler nodded and sucked in a deep breath. _Now or never…_ "Sir, there is one thing," he said, pulling out one of the pages he'd just looked at. "Caffrey's got it mostly worked out. But there is this."

Kramer leaned in to look. "Caffrey's expecting to go on a field trip?"

"Look, we've both investigated a lot of break-ins," Fowler started, feeling his way carefully. "The best ones show a lot of careful planning. And you brought Caffrey in because he's the best."

"I hardly think letting him out to explore is a good idea, especially not after his escape attempt," Kramer objected.

"The thing is, sir, if he tries and gets caught, you might not get another chance at that diamond." That seemed to get Kramer's attention, so Fowler pressed his advantage. "Look, I can put together a security plan to take him out, let him see what he needs, and get him back."

Kramer stared at the plans in front of him for so long that Fowler was afraid he'd pushed too hard. But the agent finally looked up and nodded. "I do need this to work, and time is of the essence. Put together your plan and bring it to me for approval."

Fowler fought the urge to swallow hard in relief. Instead, he just nodded. "I'll do that."

 

* * *

 

"Suit! Where are you? Call me back – quick."

Mozzie disconnected the call, stuffing the phone back into one of the pockets in his park service overalls. Hardly high fashion, but they matched the fake authorization papers Sally had provided as a cover for driving the radar unit all over the National Mall.

And now he'd found something – but the Suit was missing. In fact, he'd never come back from walking Mrs. Suit back to work after lunch.

Well, he had a little more area to scan. If he didn't have a reply by the time he finished, maybe he'd give in and call Lady Suit. According to Sally, they were getting along well… for a Suit.

 

* * *

 

"So you followed Kramer to get here."

Peter nodded. "Yup. He and Callaway. Saw them walking across the Mall, obviously in a hurry."

"Probably when Hall called them," Neal suggested.

"You do have a way of bringing people together."

Neal rolled his eyes – at least, his one good eye. "Right."

They'd covered how each of them got to where they were now, but Peter had more questions. "So this Gewalt Group, how much have you learned?"

"Well, in German, Gewalt means power, but combined with violence or control. And power is definitely what they want. Global power."

"And Kramer's the head?"

"As far as I can tell. Everyone else I've met here defers to him."

"How are they planning to get this power?"

"Well, there's a huge room full of art. I recognized a lot of the pieces as stolen works – though there's a chance they're not all originals."

That piqued Peter's interest. "And you would know this… how?"

"I may, or may not, have reason to know what actually happened to a certain Vermeer work that used to hang in a gallery in Amsterdam."

"Let me guess – they may have one of your forgeries here instead of the original."

Neal shrugged. "Hypothetically."

"Is that why they brought you here?"

Neal sighed, staring across the room. "They brought me here because you were right – I'm just a criminal."

"Neal…"

"No, it's true. I wanted to be more, Peter. I _tried_ to be more."

"You _are_ more."

"But I'm not. The only reason they kidnapped me is because I'm a criminal. If I wasn't a criminal, you wouldn't have had to come after me, and you wouldn't be in this mess." He gave a short, humorless laugh. "Hell, if I wasn't a criminal, we never would have even met. Just think how much easier your life would be."

"Easier, maybe," Peter replied. "But a lot less interesting."

"If you find things like being kidnapped interesting."

"A few experiences I could have skipped," Peter admitted. "But if I never met you, I don't think I ever would have stood on the pitcher's mound at Yankee Stadium."

That got a small, genuine smile from Neal. "It was a good day."

"The best. And nothing criminal about it… right?"

Neal shook his head. "No. Just a friend of a friend of a friend."

Peter waited while Neal got up and retrieved the bottle of wine, refilled their glasses, and sat down again. "Neal, I was wrong when I said you were just a criminal," he started softly.

Neal held up his hands, gesturing at the room. "Obviously you weren't, judging by our current circumstances."

"No, I was definitely wrong. I let the fact that you've committed criminal acts overshadow everything else you've done. And part of me just struggled to accept that that the system I worked for – the system I believed in – didn't work."

"I did try, Peter," Neal said, very quietly. "I tried to find James. I called in every favor, went to every contact. Mozzie used his contacts. I spent hours with Diana and Jones, trying to remember everything James said to me, looking for any clues. But he was just… gone. And then it was the eleventh hour, a minute to midnight, and I couldn't let you be indicted for something you didn't do."

"I know, and I understand it now. And to think I accused you of corrupting the system."

"I didn't do it alone."

Peter shook his head. "No, not at all. But it took one final epiphany for me to figure it out."

"What?"

"Remember the best practices conference? Even when there isn't trust…"

"There's faith," Neal finished.

"Yeah. I realized I forgot that. I lost faith, and I shouldn't have."

"I may have challenged your resolve on that, from time to time."

"Maybe once or twice. But that's the thing about faith, Neal. Sometimes it wavers, but it just needs a good kick in the ass when that happens."

"Like being kidnapped together?"

"It's a good wake-up call," Peter agreed. He shook his head slowly. "All of this over the diamond."

"Well, what the diamond represents," Neal added. "The history, the power."

"And it's worth all of this?"

"Apparently it is, to certain people."

"But what's the Gewalt Group's end game?"

Neal shrugged. "Surprisingly, they haven't taken me into their confidence. All Kramer said was that there's a wealthy family in the Middle East with big oil interests, and they want the diamond for its history. I don't know what the plan is for the oil the diamond will buy."

"I'm not sure I even want to think about the possibilities," Peter said.

"I know. I recognized some of the people I've seen here – an awful lot of secret power."

"And literally right under the government's nose."

"Almost in the shadow of the Capitol," Neal agreed. "So, you said you followed Kramer to get here. What led you to think my disappearance was related to the diamond in the first place?"

"Mozzie couldn't come up with anyone in town from your past who'd plan something like an abduction," Peter replied. "So then we looked at case files for the last six months or so, and no one else really stood out as a good suspect."

"I still can't believe how much work they went to in order to pull me into that."

"It was pretty impressive," Peter agreed. "Frighteningly so."

"And they knew the perfect bait to reel me in," Neal said, sighing.

Peter nodded. "Yeah, they did. But the thing is, they also slipped up doing it. Rachel really did fall for you."

"That's not exactly comforting, Peter. She's a killer."

"I know, but it turned out to be a good thing. It was only because she loved you that she gave us what turned out to be the first few clues to finding you."

"I'll send her a thank you card."

"Actually, I was supposed to tell you she'd like to see you."

"Hmmmmm. I was thinking of joining a monastery instead."

"Didn't think you were religious."

"I'm not," Neal admitted. "But the solitude might be good about now."

"Of course, you'll need to get out of here first," Peter pointed out. "Plan A apparently didn't work. Got a Plan B?"

"The walls, ceiling, and floor in here are concrete. I started trying to carve a hole inside the closet."

"How's that going?"

"I figure it'll take about a year to get a hole through to the next room."

"What's in there?"

"I have no idea. But a year from now I should be able to see in there, and find out if it's worth making a big enough hole to climb through."

Peter sighed. "That's a little more long-term than I was hoping."

"My tools are a little limited," Neal pointed out. "The only metal I have is an empty soup can."

"No magical way to open the door?"

"No lock or handle on the inside." Neal got to his feet and disappeared behind the pony wall for a moment before reappearing. "This is my entire collection of tools," he said.

Peter looked down at the table – one miniature pick, five hair pins, and four dimes. "Not a lot to work with."

"The dimes might work to take the hinges off," Neal explained. "But there's a camera right outside the door."

"There was a guard, too, when they brought me down."

"Even more difficult then. And no one knows where you went."

"Probably driving Mozzie nuts about now," Peter admitted. "He was expecting me back."

"Moz has come through for me a lot of times," Neal said. "But I'm not sure I'd count on him storming the fortress."

"No, probably not," Peter had to agree. "So we're stuck, unless someone else puts all the pieces together."

"Well, there might be one more option…"


	17. The Plan

 

' _Berrigan.'_

"Lady Suit!"

' _Mozzie? What's…'_

"No time! Listen. The Suit… Peter never came back after lunch."

' _You're sure he isn't with Elizabeth? Or maybe he went back to the Archives.'_

"No, we had a plan. He wouldn't change the plan without contacting me."

' _All right, let me try calling…'_

"I've tried. Straight to voicemail."

' _If the battery is still in, maybe I can get the GPS signal.'_

"I'll have Sally try too."

' _I'll call you back if I can find something.'_

 

* * *

 

Fowler punched in the code and waited for the electronic lock to disengage, then opened the door and pushed the cart inside.

"Caffrey, Kramer wants you to go over this plan again, and be ready to present it to him in the morning," he said, loud enough to make sure the guard in the hall could hear. "And he expects there to be no mistakes in it."

The door closed and he looked over to where Caffrey and Burke were sitting. "I talked to Kramer," he said. "I think I convinced him you need to case the place yourself. He told me to put together a security plan and present it to him."

Neal was on his feet. "When?"

"I can't push it too fast," Fowler warned. "And if Kramer isn't satisfied with the plan, he won't go for it. I'm thinking tomorrow night." He turned toward Peter. "I wasn't counting on you being here."

"I wasn't planning on it either," Peter said.

"This is a two-man job," Neal said quickly. "And Peter's the only one I'd trust to have my back."

Fowler nodded. "That might work, if you can make it part of the plan you present."

"I can," Neal replied, with no trace of a doubt. " _We_ can."

Fowler turned back to Peter. "We're going to need help. Who do you still trust in the Bureau?"

Peter's reply was immediate. "Jonah Bancroft."

"I've met him," Fowler said. "All right, let me see what I can do."

 

* * *

 

"Are you getting a signal?"

Mozzie adjusted the earpiece more securely so he could listen to Sally at the same time he was adjusting the display on his laptop.

"All right, I've got it."

_Except "it" made no sense…_

He'd taken the precaution of slipping a tiny tracking device onto the Suit when they'd met that morning. Even though they seemed to be working well together, he'd never fully trust an employee of the mind-controlled government.

He might have trusted Lady Suit to try and track Peter Burke's cell phone GPS, but Sally was the only one who'd be able to locate the signal from this special chip. There was no way he was sharing this frequency with the Feds.

He triangulated again, and overlaid the map Sally sent. According to this, the Suit had been inside the Smithsonian castle for the last two hours. But why wouldn't he have said something? And what could he hope to find inside there?

_Unless…_

"Sally, does this signal show depth?"

The answer both clarified and muddled things. The signal only showed latitude and longitude, not depth. So either the Suit was inside the castle…

Or he had found a way into the secret chamber.

And if Peter _was_ down below, that raised the question of whether he had gone there of his own volition, or been taken against his will.

 

* * *

 

"So you finished the Matisse copy?"

"I didn't have much choice, Peter."

They were hunched over the plans for the Natural History museum, but still discussing some of the details of the last week.

"Will it pass as the original?"

Neal looked up. "It's what I do, Peter," he said. "Besides, I knew Kramer would be inspecting it, and he wouldn't be easy to fool."

"That's true," Peter admitted.

"I may have slipped something in after he approved it though," Neal added. "Of course, it would only matter if someone holds the painting up to a heat source and looks at the back."

Peter laughed. "What, the old secret message written in lemon juice." Neal just gave that his little half smile and a shrug, and Peter's eyes widened. "Seriously? Lemon juice?"

"My options, and choice of supplies, were a little limited, Peter," Neal pointed out. "And if all the buyer does is hang the painting on a wall, it won't make a difference."

"True. So what did you write?"

"My name, and the date."

"Not a map to where you were being held hostage?"

"I think someone might have noticed if I'd taken enough lemon wedges to do that…"

 

* * *

 

The Justice building looked so familiar, and yet so foreboding at the same time.

Fowler stood outside, staring at the entrance. He'd been assigned here for several years, and at the time it had felt like a second home. Now, it seemed like he was getting ready to invade foreign territory.

He knew the Big Three – Kramer, Callaway, and Hall – were still over in the underground lair. Caffrey's escape attempt, Burke's capture, and the imminent attempt for the diamond had given them a lot to discuss. And it stood to reason that some of the other agents involved with the Group would be there as well. But there were a _lot_ of government officials involved with the Group, and he certainly didn't know all of them by name or by sight.

If he ran into one of the Group members who recognized him, this would be all over.

The good thing was that most of the employees here at the Justice building weren't dealing with active cases, and they tended to keep more regular schedules. And if it was anything like his time here, that meant that most people were probably looking to get out a little early on a nice Friday afternoon.

It was nearly five o'clock, and the exodus of people had slowed to a trickle. Not knowing how long Bancroft would wait for his scheduled meeting with Burke, it was time to go.

Fowler took a deep breath, adjusted his dark glasses and hat, and started up the steps.

 

* * *

 

Bancroft looked at the clock – again – and picked up his phone. But, as before, the call went directly to voicemail.

He stepped to the door and opened it. "Why don't you go ahead and leave, Marjorie," he told his assistant.

"Did you want me to try Agent Burke one more time?"

"No, I'll take care of it. Thank you."

"All right. Have a good weekend, sir."

"You too, Marjorie."

He stepped back into his office and closed the door. It wasn't that he knew Burke extremely well, but this failure to not show up on time for a meeting didn't seem like the agent's _modus operandi_.

He debated calling Burke's wife, but that was problematic as well. If she hadn't heard from her husband, the call would just make her worried, and there wasn't cause – yet – for that.

Bancroft was just going to try calling Burke again when there was a knock on the door. "Come."

It definitely wasn't Burke who walked in, though the man was about the same height and age. "Assistant Director Bancroft, sir. I believe you're expecting a meeting."

"You do look familiar, but I know you're not Peter Burke," Bancroft said. "I had an appointment with him."

"Yes, sir, I know. My name is Garrett Fowler."

"Of course. We have met."

"We have, several years ago."

"Didn't I hear that you left the Bureau?"

"I did. But what I need to talk about right now is Peter Burke, and Neal Caffrey. They're in trouble, and we don't have a lot of time."

Bancroft sat down behind his desk and motioned at a chair in front. "Have a seat," he said. "Tell me what you know."

 

* * *

 

 

Mozzie made his way slowly down the spiraling drive in the parking ramp. In his non-descript overalls, and with the work cap pulled low, he wasn't worried about any of the passing drivers paying enough attention to him to be a concern. And the lower he went, the fewer the vehicles.

He'd gone into the Smithsonian castle earlier, on the off chance that the Suit had come up with some kind of lead there. But a thorough search turned up no sign of the other man. All in all, not surprising, but it certainly would have been easier to find him there.

Unfortunately, there was no recognizable entrance to a secret underground chamber inside the castle either. Of course, that didn't mean such an entrance didn't exist, but it was difficult to do a thorough search with all of the tourists around.

Sally had fine-tuned her tracking data, which actually showed that the secret chip was somewhere _behind_ the castle. Thus, Mozzie found himself investigating other ways to find an entrance.

He hadn't ruled out breaking into the castle after hours to search. But that would have to wait until later, at least after dark.

For now, the underground ramp held promise…

Until he hit the dead end.

 

* * *

 

The story was ridiculous, totally ludicrous, patently absurd…

And, ultimately, all too believable.

Fowler had provided too much detail for Bancroft to come to any other conclusion.

He made arrangements to meet the former agent in the early morning hours at an out-of-the-way diner, and then let Fowler out of the building via a back way. And then he picked up the phone to make some calls. He stressed secrecy to all of the people he contacted, and he told them to come to the situation room on the lower level of the Justice building.

They most definitely had a situation on their hands.

 

* * *

 

Peter straightened up, holding his back. "I don't think I can look at any more plans tonight."

Neal nodded. "I think we've got the plan down, at least enough to convince Kramer in the morning."

"Never thought I'd be trying to convince a senior FBI agent that I was going to help break into a museum."

"We did break into a bank together once. The infamous Caffrey and Burke."

"That was to try and _stop_ a crime," Peter objected. "And I distinctly recall telling you that it would be Burke and Caffrey."

"Age before beauty, I guess," Neal muttered.

Peter grinned. "Well, this _old man_ could use some sleep. If Fowler can get things set up, we might have a big day tomorrow."

"Only one bed," Neal pointed out. "But we can share, if you want."

"I thought you tossed in your sleep."

"No anklet, so you're probably safe from bruising."

"Good to know. But I don't really sleep well sharing a bed with anyone but El." Peter pointed at one of the recliners. "That'll be fine."

"All right." Neal went to the closet and came back with a pillow and a sheet. "There are some extra heads for the toothbrush in the top drawer by the sink. Help yourself. Anything else you need?"

Peter shook his head. "I think I'm good for now," he replied. "But Neal, it's a good, solid plan."

That got a smile from Neal. "Let's hope Kramer agrees."

 

* * *

 

Elizabeth jumped when the knock came on the back door.

Satchmo beat her to the kitchen, and was woofing softly when she reached to turn on the outside light. That was his usual greeting when he knew, and liked, someone, so she was feeling a little better.

And somehow she wasn't surprised to see Mozzie on the back porch.

"What do you know?" she asked, foregoing a greeting as he came in. _Peter hadn't called, he wasn't answering the phone, Bancroft had been evasive…_

"We need to talk, Elizabeth," Mozzie said as he quickly closed the door and turned the light off again.

"I can make a pot of coffee…"

"We might need something stronger."

And somehow, Elizabeth couldn't disagree. "The bar is this way."

 

* * *

 

Fowler left the early morning meeting feeling a little more confident.

Bancroft had gotten together a strong group of agents – fortunately, none that Fowler recognized by name or face from the Group. They were a professional, determined bunch, and by the time the meeting broke up, there was a solid plan in place to take down the team escorting Caffrey and Burke to the museum.

Of course, there was no such animal as a sure thing when it came to dealing with a bunch of armed people, some of whom may think they had nothing to lose by engaging in a firefight.

But there wasn't much choice. An all-out assault to try and rescue the hostages from the underground fortress would be disastrous, not only for those in the bunker, but potentially for much of the Mall – given the amount of explosives Fowler had seen, he wouldn't bet against the above-ground buildings over the chamber collapsing as well.

If they could get Burke and Caffrey free, and maybe capture a few of the security escorts alive, they might be able to get more information on how to take down the Group inside their lair.

First, though, they needed to convince Kramer of the plan.

 

* * *

 

The meeting was in the Round Table room, the one he'd first seen when brought here over a week ago.

Actually, it was coming up on closer to two weeks, Neal reflected, as he started to set out the floor plans and other diagrams. But hopefully, this would be the last day of captivity.

Everything depended on the plan he and Peter were about to present to Kramer…

And, of course, on whether Fowler had succeeded in getting his part of the plan set up.

 

* * *

 

She recognized him through the window as she went to answer the doorbell.

They'd only met twice, at Bureau commendation dinners, but Jonah Bancroft was the type who made an impression. The fact that he was here now, at her door…

Her hand was shaking as she turned the knob. "Agent Bancroft."

He tipped his head in greeting. "Mrs. Burke."

"Peter didn't come home last night," she said, hating how her voice shook. "I can't reach him by phone. Do you know…"

"I don't know everything yet, Mrs. Burke, but I do have some information I'd like to share with you. May I come in?"

She nodded and stepped back, letting him pass her into the living room. Then she leaned against the door for a long moment for support before finally closing it and following him.

_Please let Peter be all right…_

 

* * *

 

"You never mentioned before that this was a two-person job."

Neal shrugged, as casually as he could. "You hadn't asked for my completed report before."

Kramer's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "So you're saying this isn't some last-minute change just because we now hold Burke?"

"You brought me here because I'm the best," Neal replied, with as much confidence as he could put behind the words. "And I'm telling you, based on what these plans are showing me, this job is going to require two people."

Kramer's eyes met his for a long moment, and Neal refused to blink first. "Not Burke," he finally said. "I'll assign someone…"

"No." Neal cut him off firmly. "It's Peter, or you can find someone else to do the job. I'm not going into something like this with anyone I can't trust."

Kramer was silent for a long moment, breathing heavily, before turning to Peter. "And you're willing to participate in a museum robbery? Why should I believe that?"

"I told you once before, Neal is my partner," Peter replied. "The circumstances were different, but that fact hasn't changed. If you're sending him into harm's way, it's my job to go with him and have his back."

Kramer looked back to Neal. "Tell me why you both have to go tonight."

"The Smithsonian isn't exactly a lightweight when it comes to security," Neal explained, rolling his eyes as if he couldn't believe he actually needed to clarify that. "We both need to know exactly what we're walking into when we do the job. I'm assuming you don't want us to get caught."

"Getting caught would be very bad," Kramer said, and the threat in his voice was clear. "For both of you, and possibly for others." He turned toward Peter again. "How _does_ your wife like her new job, Petey?"

"You do anything to threaten my wife, and I'll kill you," Peter promised.

Kramer just laughed off the threat. "Do the job, get me the diamond, and no one gets hurt." His eyes turned toward the other man standing near them. "You're confident in your security plan for tonight?"

Garrett Fowler nodded. "Everything is worked out."

"Caffrey here likes to run," Kramer warned.

"We'll be ready for that," Fowler confirmed.

"I hope so." Kramer turned back to face Neal. "Just to be clear, after this museum job, we have other plans for you. Those jobs will require that your hands be in good shape, but perhaps not your feet. Keep that in mind if you're thinking of another escape attempt."

"I like my feet," Neal replied. "And I'm not planning to give Fowler a reason to shoot me."

"See that you don't," Kramer said, his voice icily cold. "All right, you'll case museum tonight, and pull the job tomorrow night. Is that clear?"

Neal nodded. "Crystal clear." his eyes flicked to Peter, then Fowler, and back to Kramer. "We'll be ready."

 

* * *

 

It was not his favorite day ever.

It was probably marginally better than the first couple of days in the hospital after being shot, Mozzie reflected. But not by much.

He had spent the night at the Burke residence in Georgetown, and had been there that morning when the Big Suit came to talk to Elizabeth. Even with his distaste for The Man, he couldn't leave her there alone under the circumstances.

But somehow, Big Suit had gotten under his defenses – not far, mind you, but far enough that Mozzie had shared his radar results from the day before, as well as his parking ramp exploration.

And that led to where they were now. Big Suit was gone, but three agents from the hostage rescue team had taken his place. Their purpose at the house was twofold. First, they were tasked with making sure that nothing happened to Elizabeth.

Second, they were to learn everything they could about the underground bunker. If everything went according to plan tonight – which meant that Neal and Peter were found and freed – the next phase was to move in on the headquarters of this shadow group.

So Mozzie found himself laying out his evidence, and some carefully selected theories, about the hidden chamber, with Feds taking careful notes.

_Oh, the things he would do for Neal…_

 

* * *

 

The day passed, either slowly or quickly, depending on when he thought about it.

They hadn't had much time to talk to Fowler – probably less than a minute that morning before Kramer arrived for the meeting. It was enough for the former agent to confirm that he had talked with Bancroft, and the FBI would have a rescue team in place, but not enough to know when this would occur.

Not knowing if the rescue attempt would be on the way _to_ or _from_ the museum, Neal drilled Peter on what they needed to look for to case the place. After all, they had no way of knowing whether Kramer or someone would be listening to them or at least reporting back later.

Just in case the plan fell through tonight, Neal also intended to look for the best routes out for Sunday night. Botching the actual heist would be risky, but if they gave Kramer the diamond, there was no guarantee that either he or Peter would ever be released, and that was a depressing thought. For one thing, he didn't intend to be a prisoner in that underground bunker for the rest of his life.

And for another, he didn't intend to let Kramer win and get the diamond.

Of course, just now, there was no reason to believe the rescue attempt would _not_ be made tonight, or to doubt that it would be successful.

He'd just found that it always paid to have a back-up plan.


	18. Shadows in the Night

It was after ten o'clock that night when the door opened and Fowler walked into the room, followed closely by another man who was carrying a large bag.

Peter got to his feet, and he felt Neal come up next to him. "Is it time?"

"Almost," Fowler answered. He gestured for the other man to put the bag down. "The black clothing Caffrey requested for both of you. Get changed, and someone will be back for you shortly."

The second man had started back for the door, but Fowler was still standing by the bag as Peter moved to pick it up. And just as he reached down, he felt something being pressed into his hand.

"Make sure you're wearing these," Fowler whispered. "They'll send a signal to HRT so they know who we are out there."

Peter nodded, closing his hand around the two small sensors as he completed the task of picking up the bag. "We'll be ready," he said, more to assure himself than for any other reason.

Fowler nodded and followed the other man out of the room.

Once the door had closed, and he heard the lock engage, Peter turned to Neal and opened his hand. "Take one of these. They're supposed to let HRT know who the good guys are."

"Supposed to?" Neal asked as he took one.

Peter shrugged. "Outside of painting our names on the shirts, do you have a better idea?"

"Personally, if any shooting starts, I plan to hit the ground."

"That's probably a good plan," Peter agreed. "But wear the sensor too."

"Always good to have a back-up plan," Neal replied.

"HRT is good, Neal."

"I know."

"They really do a pretty good job of _not_ shooting hostages."

"Let's hope that record stays intact tonight."

"Yeah, let's hope." Peter opened the bad and started pulling out articles of clothing. "I guess we'd better get ready."

"It's going to be fine, Peter. You'll be home with Elizabeth before you know it."

And that was the thought that Peter kept foremost in his mind as he changed clothes.

 

* * *

 

There were eight black-clad guards, including Fowler, waiting in the Round Table room when Neal and Peter were led in shortly before eleven o'clock. That fit with the security plan that had been presented to Kramer earlier that day.

What surprised Neal – and what definitely had _not_ been part of the discussed plan – was that Kramer and Callaway were also there, and also wearing black.

Callaway had even replaced her usual heels with flats that actually looked practical. Of course, they also made her look tiny next to the regular security force.

"You're going along?" Neal asked, trying to make the question sound casual.

"Well, this is a great opportunity," Kramer replied, with that oily smile that made Neal's skin crawl. "After all, I've never had the opportunity to case an establishment with an expert of your caliber."

Callaway laughed. "It'll be a great learning opportunity."

Kramer made a show of checking his gun. "And we'll be able to provide back-up for Fowler, just in case."

"Well, the more the merrier," Neal said. "Shall we go?"

 

* * *

 

Bancroft leaned back against the wall, blending into the deep shadows. He was getting too old for this, and he hadn't been a field agent in a very long time.

But there was no way he was missing this.

Through his earpiece he could hear the members of the hostage rescue unit checking in, confirming they were in place. Knowing some of the feats HRT had pulled off, he had a good feeling about this plan.

He heard his name called over the frequency they were using and he responded with his location. Someone else confirmed that his sensor was working, identifying him through the night vision goggles the actual shooters were wearing.

Hopefully Fowler had managed to get the other sensors to Burke and Caffrey. Otherwise that good feeling he was having might turn bad in a hurry.

 

* * *

 

They were finally moving.

The group traversed through several long corridors before finally stopping at an elevator. The car wouldn't accommodate all of them at once, so Fowler took four of the guards and Neal and went first.

Peter didn't like that he and Neal had been separated, but he understood. If the former agent had tried to take both captives, and one fewer of the guards, Kramer would probably have objected.

Besides, he doubted they were actually at the museum here.

The car returned after a minute or so, and the rest of the group was ushered in. They went up, though there were no floor indicators that Peter could see.

The first group was waiting, and they joined together again before turning down a short hallway. One of the guards had gone ahead, and they found him at what appeared to be a solid wall, studying a video display.

"It's all clear," the man confirmed.

Kramer stepped over to the wall and opened a panel that Peter hadn't noticed. He punched in a code, and a moment later the entire wall started to slide away.

On the other side, they stepped into a parking ramp, and the group stopped, waiting until the wall slid back into place.

"This must be where they brought me in," Neal said softly.

"No talking!" Kramer hissed.

In the dim lighting, Peter could see Neal roll his eyes, and he smiled. There were still a lot of things that could go wrong, but at least it felt good to be underway. And it seemed that his partner felt the same way. The younger man's gait was relaxed, confident.

_Partner…_

He hadn't actually thought about Neal in terms of being a partner for a while. But it felt good to use that term now, even if only to himself.

Not that he'd wish being in this situation on anyone else, but facing the unknown with a partner seemed infinitely better than going it alone.

 

* * *

 

' _Targets sighted. Coming around to the east of the Arts and Industries Building.'_

Bancroft took a deep breath and keyed his microphone. "Stand by. Let them come into the target zone. Remember to use your targeting system to watch for the friendly sensors, and make sure of your targets. You are green to go."

He checked his own gun, and pulled his night vision goggles down. He'd only had a crash course in how to use them, and the plan wasn't that he'd need to be a shooter tonight.

But he planned to be ready, just in case.

 

* * *

 

Later, Peter would realize that the next few minutes occurred in fits and starts for him, and he was only aware of what transpired in a very small circle around him.

They came out of the parking ramp south of the Mall, and had to skirt around buildings to get back on course for their target. It made for a longer walk, and he kept looking around for the Mall police.

_Because surely the sight of twelve people, all dressed in black, heading toward the Natural History Museum shortly before midnight on a Saturday night would raise some questions…_

But there was no sign of any law enforcement personnel anywhere. In fact, the whole Mall area was eerily deserted.

Which was unfortunate, because it eliminated any distractions that might have given him and Neal a chance to make a run for it.

They made their way across the grassy expanse, toward the museum. The night sky contained only a quarter moon, partially hidden in clouds, so there wasn't much light. And the external walls of the museum had only a few spotlights here and there, mostly on the far end, to break the darkness.

_Somehow, Peter figured Bancroft may have had something to do with the lack of pedestrian traffic, and the lack of lights._

Fortunately, the dark-clad mercenaries seemed to take the darkness in stride, as their due.

Two of the guards were on point, and they had almost reached the building when the first red laser dots appeared, lighting up the nine people without the special sensors.

"FBI, freeze!"

Peter was sure those were the two best words he'd heard, at least since El said "I do" at their wedding. But, as with many campaigns throughout history, not everything went as planned. And this was where his memory became rather focused, and selective.

Some of the guards did as ordered. They froze, and dropped their guns. Next to him, Peter was aware of Neal dropping to the ground and out of the line of fire, just as planned. And he started to do the same.

But that's when he heard a screech, and the next thing he knew, Amanda Callaway had launched herself at him. Under normal circumstances, her slight frame wouldn't have been much of a challenge. But the sheer audacity of her attack stunned him, and gave her a momentary advantage.

He was actually struggling with his ingrained distaste for hitting a woman, when she made the decision much easier for him by going for his face with her nails.

_That boxing practice with Neal a few months earlier came in handy…_

Peter pulled his arm back, and then delivered a roundhouse right that would have made Muhammad Ali proud. Callaway crumpled like dry leaf under a boot heel.

He didn't have long to savor the victory.

"Peter!"

Peter barely had a chance to register Neal's warning cry before the younger man tackled him, sending him thudding to the ground. He landed badly on his left shoulder, and the impact momentarily took his breath away, even as Neal's weight seemed to bruise each rib.

Peter was trying to suck in enough air to ask what was going on, but then the threat became clear. Phillip Kramer had taken cover behind a tree, and was currently training his gun right where Peter had been standing.

There was the sound of a shot, and another, and another…

Neal's body jerked on top of him and Peter finally found his breath. "Neal!"

There was no reply. Peter was still winded, his shoulder and ribs hurt, and he couldn't move Neal…

And Kramer was taking aim again.

Peter glanced around, and saw Callaway's gun just to his right. He started reaching for it.

There were voices all around, yelling. But he was only focused on his old friend – who had obviously not obeyed the order to freeze.

Just then, another person came into view, going right for Kramer. It wasn't until they partially turned that Peter recognized Fowler. They were struggling over the gun, there was a shot, both men stiffened…

It was Fowler who fell, and Kramer emerged on his feet, raising his gun again.

Peter's hand finally landed on Callaway's gun, and he brought it up just as Kramer screamed his name, making it sound more like a curse.

He pulled the trigger once, twice, dispassionately watching as his erstwhile mentor fell.

There was more activity around him, and a few more shots, but Peter's attention was on his partner. He finally managed to roll Neal to one side, and got a look at the bullet wound in his right side. There was blood, so much blood, and it continued to flow even as Peter pressed on the hole with all of his weight.

_His efforts seemed as futile as an ancient Pompeian trying to stem the flow of lava from Mount Vesuvius._

He was pretty sure he was calling out for help, but amid the chaos, it was hard to tell…

 

* * *

 

They let him ride in the ambulance with Neal, but once they reached Georgetown University Hospital, he was shunted off to the waiting room, while Neal was rushed back to a trauma room.

The waiting room was soon filled with FBI and local police personnel, and Peter was vaguely aware of being asked questions, and trying to answer them. But his attention was focused on the activity back beyond the desk.

About fifteen minutes after they arrived, a nurse came out to inform them that Neal was being taken upstairs for immediate surgery to repair the internal bleeding. She directed them to the surgical waiting area, and Peter hurried to the nearest elevator as quickly as his sore ribs would allow.

The scene was slightly less chaotic up there. Bancroft came up, along with the leader of the HRT unit that had accomplished the take-down.

Gradually, Peter gathered the highlights of the operation. Callaway was in the ER, under heavy guard, being treated for a broken jaw and possible concussion, but she'd live to see the inside of a prison. Of the anonymous guards, four were in custody. Given the questions about how far the Gewalt Group's influence might extend within the FBI, the DC Metro Police were taking charge of the prisoners.

Two of the guards had fired back, and didn't live to regret the decision. And one attempted to run – he was struck by a taxi as he darted out onto Pennsylvania Avenue, and was currently being treated at the Kaiser Permanente hospital.

The other casualties included Phillip Kramer and Garrett Fowler, both pronounced deceased at the scene.

The HRT leader and the local SWAT commander had a lot of questions about the underground chamber. Peter did his best to answer them, all the while keeping his eyes on the "Authorized Personnel Only" door that separated them from the surgical rooms. He told them all he could remember about the hidden door off of the Smithsonian subway station, including the code for the door that Bruce Hall had said he'd never see again.

It actually made Peter smile when he heard that Hall had been apprehended at Dulles after his name showed up on an early morning flight manifest to San Salvador.

What really made him smile was when Elizabeth showed up. It felt so good – so _right_ – to hold her in his arms.

HRT and SWAT were coordinating a pre-dawn raid, intending to hit all three of the known entrances to the secret chamber all at once. Thanks to Mozzie – who called Elizabeth every five minutes for updates on Neal's condition – they already knew about the parking garage, but Peter's information helped them figure out the false wall. And a team had already been re-opening the old tunnel from the Natural History Museum to the castle, which apparently had a branch to the secret chamber.

With the leadership of the Gewalt Group eliminated, the hope was that no one else would be in a position to order the use of the explosives. A cover story about a gas leak was being prepared to keep people away from the Mall, just in case. And Walt Furlong was organizing a group of agents to get in and grab all of the evidence and computers they could, once the chamber was secured.

Bancroft wanted Peter at the Justice building for a full debriefing first thing in the morning, and Peter absently agreed.

_Pending news about Neal's condition, he might not make it…_

It was almost three hours in when the surgeon came out into the waiting room. Most of the agents and police had left to help coordinate the raid, so the room had quieted down. In fact, Bancroft was the only agent left, and he was standing alone in the corner, talking quietly on his cell phone. Otherwise, it was just Peter, Elizabeth – and Mozzie, who had finally shown up when he heard that the 'suit convention' had disbanded.

The news was encouraging. Neal had lost a lot of blood, but they were confident that the surgery had repaired the damage. It would be a long haul, but he was expected to make a full recovery. The surgical resident was just finishing the procedure and closing the incision, and then Neal would be moved to a room.

Peter wanted to go, but was overruled by both his wife and Bancroft. _Which really didn't seem fair that they'd gang up on him, given all that he'd been through…_

In the end, Mozzie headed to the surgical ward to be there when Neal woke up. And Peter allowed Elizabeth to take him back to the emergency room to have his own injuries tended to.


	19. New Challenges

Peter watched as the Marshal walked off down the corridor, toward the lounge. Then he took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

At first he thought the hospital room was empty. But then he noticed that the bathroom door was closed, and he heard the sound of a toilet flushing. A moment later the door opened and Neal appeared, leaning heavily against the frame.

"Are you supposed to be out of bed?"

"Yes, actually," Neal replied, still not moving. "The therapist was in this morning and said I can start walking."

"Are you supposed to be using that?" Peter asked, pointing at a walker near the hospital bed.

"Probably."

"And you're not, because…"

Neal just scowled at it, and then turned his attention back to the bed; from Peter's standpoint, it seemed as if he was gauging the odds of making it that far.

"I met your new friend outside," Peter said, knowing that any offer of assistance would most likely be turned down. _He could well recognize another stubborn man when he saw one._

Neal nodded and moved his left foot forward. "My old friend is back too."

With Neal clad only in a hospital gown, the tracking anklet was quite visible. "Looks familiar."

"Yeah. The Marshal said they'd be moving me to a secured wing, until my 'status' could be clarified."

"They don't think the open hospital gown is enough of a deterrent to keep you from running?"

That actually got a smile from Neal. "Oh, the gown wouldn't stop me," he said, finally letting go of the door frame and starting carefully across the room. "Now, not being able to walk more than a few steps without falling over…" He stumbled, catching himself heavily against the bed.

"That might slow down your escape plan?" Peter guessed. He'd jumped forward at the first sign of imbalance, and he caught Neal's elbow, helping the younger man onto the bed.

"It might," Neal admitted, settling back against the pillows with a sigh. "How about you? Are you all right?"

Actually, catching Neal's weight like that had pulled against Peter's sore muscles, but he knew his own injuries were insignificant in comparison. "I'm fine. Just supposed to avoid lifting heavy objects for a while."

"Sorry, I thought I could make it."

Peter waved that off. "Neal, you most likely saved my life. I'll take the sore shoulder and bruised ribs. How are _you_ doing?"

Neal considered that for a moment, long enough that Peter thought he might actually get an honest answer. "Better, I guess. I'm not on as many medications."

"You took a pretty good hit. Three hours of surgery."

"That's what I heard. I guess it's good I don't remember it."

Peter had to agree – he hadn't even let them tend to his own injuries until Neal's prognosis was clearer. "Probably so. And I'm sorry I wasn't here yesterday."

Neal shook his head. "They had me on so many pain medications, I wouldn't have even known. Besides, Elizabeth said you were in meetings all day. At least, I _think_ she was here and said that."

Peter grinned. "She was here. Apparently, you were serenading my wife."

"Really? What was I singing?"

"Most of the Eagles' library of hits."

"Ahhhh, classic American pop."

"There was some opera mixed in too."

"Well, variety is good."

"I'm kind of sorry I missed it."

"You wanted to hear me sing?"

"In a way. Maybe you would have confessed to something."

Neal scowled. "That would have been taking advantage. My attorney wouldn't have liked that."

Peter laughed. "I'm sure Mozzie would have buried me in legal motions."

"Probably."

"Well, now that you're awake, and not singing, I wanted to say thank you," Peter said, all traces of laughter gone.

"You would have done the same," Neal replied, equally serious. "Besides, Fowler saved both of us."

"Yeah, he did," Peter agreed. He pulled a card out of his pocket and handed it over.

"Fowler's funeral?"

"Yeah. He was a decorated Special Forces veteran, and he'll be buried at Arlington with full honors. The service is scheduled for the end of next week, if you want to go."

"I would actually." Neal waggled his left foot. "If I'm allowed."

"I think it'll be fine. I'm glad the two of you had a chance to work things out."

"Well, he really got in too deep with Adler because he loved his wife."

"And you can understand the idea of doing something rash because of love?" Peter suggested.

Neal rolled his eyes. "Maybe." He reached over and tugged the lapel of Peter's suit. "Fancy threads. Must have been some big-time meetings.

"Yeah, lots to discuss."

"Including me?"

"Your name might have come up."

Neal nodded, staring down at his left foot. "So, just how bad _does_ my status look?"

"Actually, not bad at all," Peter replied. He set his briefcase down on the bedside table, opened it, and pulled out the top document. He handed it over, his own smile growing as Neal's eyes widened.

"Is this for real?"

"It is. Signed by the Director and the Attorney General. I watched them do it."

Neal finally pulled his eyes away from the paper, looking up. "They dropped my sentence."

"They did."

"Wow."

"There is one caveat."

Neal's look turned suspicious. "There's always a catch. What's this one?"

Peter sighed and pulled a chair up. "I told them I didn't think you planned to sue the Bureau," he replied as he sat down.

"You mean, just because it was an FBI agent who set this whole thing in motion by maneuvering me into escaping in the first place?"

"And then tried to frame you to put you back in prison."

"Tried to frame you too."

Peter grimaced. "I remember."

"And then there was the agent who sent me in blind to meet with a guy who wanted to kill me."

"Should we go into what Kramer and Callaway did?"

"Let's not. But Collins shot me point blank."

"True." Peter started to say something else, but just then the Marshal who had been stationed outside the door came in, anklet key already in hand.

"Sorry, Agent Burke," he said. "I had to verify."

"I understand," Peter replied. He got to his feet and held out his hand. "May I?" The Marshal handed over the key, and Peter inserted it into the lock. "Final time," he said softly, as the anklet opened. "Kind of seems right that I should be the one to do it."

The Marshal took the anklet and nodded to the other men. "Good luck, Mr. Caffrey," he said as he headed for the door.

Neal's eyes were fixed on his ankle but he nodded. "Thanks."

Alone in the room again, Peter turned back to Neal. "About what we were discussing before. Neal, I wish it wasn't true, but you've been mistreated at the hands of FBI agents, more than once. I'll do whatever I can to keep the anklet off if you do want to sue."

Neal had already started shaking his head before Peter finished. "This is worth more than any lawsuit," he said, holding up the document cementing his freedom.

Peter smiled and pulled something else from the briefcase. "In that case, these are yours."

Neal's eyebrow rose as he looked at the checks. "I don't understand."

"Well, it seems that you were right, a good deal of the art in that underground bunker was stolen." Peter sat down again before continuing. "In many cases, insurance companies had already paid out."

"So this money is…"

"Finder's fees. And, since you're no longer a ward of the federal prison system, you're entitled to the funds."

"Wow."

"Sterling Bosch and a few other companies will be wrapping up their reviews in the next couple of days, so there might be more to come." Peter paused, waiting until Neal looked up. "I know it's not as much as you could have gotten for the blue diamond, but, all in all, it's not a bad nest egg."

Neal shook his head slowly. "No, not at all."

"And best of all, it's legitimate."

Neal's smile was one of the small, genuine sort. "Trying to tell me something, Agent Burke?"

Peter smiled in return. "I think I've already said all I can on the subject."

Neal just nodded, and then pointed at the briefcase. "I hope you managed to get something for yourself."

"I did. A new job."

"Head of the DC Art Crimes unit?" Neal guessed. "I understand there's an opening."

"There is," Peter agreed. "And I will be consulting with the department through this transition. But that's not the long term plan."

"Don't tell me you're taking one of the bureaucratic pencil-pusher positions after all."

"Oh, no." Peter was dying to share the news anyway, so he pulled a folder out of the case and handed it over.

It didn't take Neal long to skim the pertinent parts. "The training academy at Quantico?"

Peter nodded. "Yeah. You know, White Collar crime has changed a lot in the last few years."

"That's true."

"New types of targets. A lot more hackers."

"A lot less style," Neal countered.

"Well, that might be true," Peter allowed. "But I think we need to take a fresh look at what and how we're training, make sure we're keeping up with the times. And this position includes organizing ongoing training sessions for field offices."

"Won't you miss field work?"

"Probably. And I might find a way to get out in the field in some of those office visits."

"Solely for research purposes."

"Of course!" They both smiled at that, and then Peter continued. "You know, there's something very important I've learned. The rule of law might be necessary, but there's a lot of gray between the black and white. How many shades do you suppose there are?"

"More than fifty," was Neal's reply.

"I'd believe it," Peter said. "I think I've seen them all. And a fairly smart guy has taught me that sometimes it's okay to look at the gray, and consider the human element."

"Sounds like a _really_ smart guy," Neal pointed out.

" _Fairly_ smart," Peter countered. "But I'm hoping I can find a way to bring that into the training."

"If anyone can, it's you, Peter."

"I hope so. And you know, in this position, I'll also be overseeing the bigger conferences, like the best practices one in New York."

"Well, you know, if you need a guest speaker, I never did get to finish the priest story."

"I'll give that all _due_ consideration," Peter replied, sure that Neal could probably see the sarcasm dripping off of the words. "But, funny you should bring up being a speaker. I've got something else here." He pulled one more folder out of the briefcase and handed it over.

Neal opened the cover, glancing at the first page before looking up in surprise. "A contract?"

Peter nodded. "Full consultant, full pay. I could use someone to help set up the new training program – an expert with certain skills, for example. And someone who understands that human element. You'd probably get to work some interesting cases with the field offices too."

"Mortgage fraud?"

"I doubt it. I used to get a lot of requests for your help, once our closure rate started going up."

"Really? You never said anything."

Peter shrugged. "With the anklet, and the Marshals, the logistics would have been pretty complicated. But that's not a problem any longer. And you'd be able to freelance, if you want. El said there might be some work you'd be perfect for coming up at the National Gallery, and I know Winston Bosch was interested in talking to you."

"I'd even be able to keep the fees now."

"You would."

As Peter watched, Neal stared at the contract in his right hand. "This is tempting, Peter. It really is." He raised his left hand, with the document assuring his freedom. "But it's been almost eight years since I could go anywhere. And I don't even remember the last time I could travel under my own name."

"I get it. You need some time to explore your freedom. And in the end, you're the only one who can decide who you're going to be."

"A con or a man?" Neal said softly.

"Exactly," Peter agreed. "Though I'm kind of hoping you've already made that call." He pointed at the contract. "Take a look at the date."

Neal did, and then looked up. "January. That's four months from now."

"It is. Good to see that the conk on your noggin didn't impact your math skills."

The younger man's answering scowl was comical, but Peter managed not to laugh. "You'll definitely need some help if you're going to put any humor into the training," Neal muttered.

Peter finally gave in and laughed. "Probably." _How many times had Jones and Diana groaned at his attempts to make jokes…_ "I know this is a lot for one day, and I understand you need some time. But maybe you could at least let me know if you'll think about it."

Neal looked back down at the contract and shrugged. "I don't know, a chance to corrupt the impressionable young minds of agent trainees might be fun."

Peter let out his standard Neal-induced sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as he slowly shook his head. "Educate, Neal. We call it educating."

Neal's answering grin was almost blinding. "Right." And then the grin disappeared, and he was very serious when he continued. "I will, Peter. I will definitely think about it."

"Good enough," Peter replied, managing to not sigh audibly in relief. "Now, what about your immediate plans? Are you going to be doing some therapy once you're released?"

"Probably. The therapist mentioned it today, but I wasn't sure where I'd be." Neal stared down at his bare ankle. "I guess I can schedule something now."

"You can. And you know, if you want, El and I have a guest room on the ground floor. No stairs."

"Bathroom?"

"Also available on the first floor. And if you said you were interested, I might even make sure there's a bed in there."

"I'm a wounded man, Peter. A bed would be important."

"Does that mean you're accepting?"

"I'm considering."

"You did threaten to be the houseguest who never left."

"It wasn't so much a threat as a…" Neal began.

"A warning?" Peter offered.

"A promise," Neal said firmly.

"Sounds good. I'll take care of the bed." Peter got to his feet and started to close up the briefcase. "Now, anything else you need today?"

"They won't let me have coffee…"

"Let me rephrase," Peter said, interrupting. "Anything that isn't against medical advice?"

"You're no fun." But Neal was smiling as he said it. "I'm good. Mozzie dropped off some reading material earlier."

"Conspiracy theories?"

"Quite possibly. But you know, sometimes they're real."

"I know," Peter agreed, failing to suppress an involuntary shiver. "All right, I'm meeting my wife for dinner. And then she has a bedroom furniture store she wants to check out."

"Pretty sure I was going to say yes, were you?"

Peter grinned. "Who knows Neal Caffrey better than I do?" he asked. "Correction. I know the _old_ Neal Caffrey about as well as anyone. I'm looking forward to getting to know the _new_ Neal."

"Me too."

"Well, you have plenty of time. So take it easy tonight, get some rest." He walked over to the window and brought the walker closer to the bed. "Use this if you get up again!"

Neal muttered something that might have been "Yes, mom."

Peter just grinned and grabbed his case. "I have more meetings in the morning, but I'll stop by after that. Maybe they'll have a better idea when you'll be out of here."

Neal tugged at the top of the hospital gown. "You know, I don't have any clothes."

"Got you covered there," Peter replied. "Hughes is coming to town tomorrow to give his statement, and he said he'd talk to June about getting some of your things. Of course, it wouldn't surprise me if she decides to come along and bring them herself."

"Wouldn't surprise me either," Neal said, smiling at the thought. "She's special."

"Yeah, she is. You know, Jones and Diana are coming down for the weekend to get caught up on all the details. Maybe we'll have a barbeque, test out the new grill."

"Can you do a pot roast on the grill?"

"Hey, I do pretty good burgers and brats!" Peter insisted.

"Your culinary talents have doubled."

"Keep it up and you'll be fighting Satchmo for his bed," Peter warned as he opened the door. "Rest up, Neal. You've got a whole new life ahead of you."

"So do you, Peter."

"Yeah, I do. We've both got new challenges. And it's going to be good, Neal, for both of us."

And as he walked down the hospital corridor toward the elevator, that thought put an extra spring in Peter's step. The future did, indeed, look promising.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've made it this far... thanks for reading, reviewing, favoriting and following. Overall, Season 5 left me very disillusioned, so it felt good to finally get back into the heads of Neal, Peter, and the others. And since the show is often not the best at wrapping up loose ends, it's a good thing we have fan fiction :-)


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